NRLF 


B   M   7EE  50fl 


THE  POEMS  OF 

MAX  EHRMANN 


GIFT  OF 
Indiana  publishing  co 


THE  POEMS 

if    MAX    EHRMANN 


NEW  YORK 

DODGE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
220  East  23d  Street 


Copyright,        1906 
by  Viquesney  Publishing  Co. 

Cop  y  r  ight,        1910 
by    Dodge    Publishing    Co. 


Contents 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  SUN 9 

PORTRAITS  OF  WOMEN 33 

Her  Acceptance 3S 

Yes  or  No 37 

Her  Solitude 39 

Her  Dream 4° 

A  Woman's  Question 40 

The  One  Man 41 

I  Give  Myself  for  Love 44 

A  Woman  Rocking  Her  Child 45 

The  Love-mad  Huss 49 

To  Her  Husband 5° 

He  Will  Come 52 

To  You  Who  Come  at  Evening 53 

The  Bride 54 

The  One  Woman 54 

ON  THE  SHORES  OF  THE  SKY 57 

The  Awakening 59 

•You  with  the  Still  Soul 60 

Who  Entereth  Here 61 

Letter  to  a   Solitary 61 

I  See  There  Is  a  Good  Deal  of  Grandiloquence  63 

*  The  Noise  of  the  City 64 

Afield 64 

Something  Will  Rise  in  You 65 

Thou  Mother 65 

0  Sweet  Content! 66 

Will  You  Come  Back  to  Me? 66 

1  Sit  and  Wait 67 

The  Dawn 69 

One  Will  Pass  the  Door 69 

Come,  You  Who  Are  Weary 7° 

On  a  May  Morning 7° 

•  Nothing 72 

A  Child 72 

Once  I  Lived  on  a  High  Mountain 73 

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The  Poems  §f  Max  Ehrmann 


IN  THE  GLOAMING  AND  THE  NIGHT  ...  75 
The   Luminous  Worlds  and  the  Love  of  the 

Night 77 

Revelation 78 

The  Lure  of  the  World 79 

In  the  Night's  Mysterious  Stillness     ....  80 

I  Go  Inside  and  Close  the  Door 80 

A  Few  Hours  Ago 81 

I  Looked  Out  at  the  Night 81 

0  Lonely  Workers! 82 

Scorn  Not  the  Inner  Song 83 

•  At  Nightfall 84 

1  Go  Out  into  the  Night 84 

Ere  You  Lie  Down  to  Sleep 85 

Good  Night     ...     <     ........  85 

THE  BOOK  OF  REBELLION 87 

America 89 

Lamentations  . 89 

The  Greater  Heroism 92 

I  Went  into  a  Magnificent  Church 92 

I  Journeyed  from  University  to  University  .     .     94 

A  Certain  Rich  Man's  Dream 94 

To  the  Masters  of  Men 95 

Thou  that  Art  Idle  Born 96 

The  Enemy 97 

Sunday  Night 98 

Desire 99 

His  Last  Toast 99 

Suicide 100 

Night  Meditations 101 

The  Fool  and  the  City  of  Content 103 

Myself 104 

I  Stood  at  the  Crossing  of  Two  Streets  .     .     .105 

I  Ponder  o'er  Love 106 

The  Task 107 

IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE 115 

One  of  Long  Ago 117 

To  Be  With  You 118 

A  Man  and  a  Woman 119 

6 


n     t     e     n 


At  the  Dance 119 

While  a  Season  Changed 120 

When  I  Come  Home 121 

Song 122 

After  the  Day 123 

Let  Pass 123 

The  Dead  Wife 124 

•  Love  Some  One 124 

THE  CROWDED  WORLD  .  .  125 

The  Crowded  World 127 

The  Parable  of  the  Sea 127 

There  Was  a  Young  Artist 129 

I  Know 131 

O  Passer-by! 133 

You  Who  Wrangle  with  Me  at  the  Mart  .     .      133 
Broken  Veteran  of  Commercial  Wars  ....  134 

A  Visit  to  a  Man  of  Fame 135 

To-morrow 136 

-    The  Hate  and  the  Love  of  the  World  .     .     .     .138 

Often  in  the  Crowded  Mart 139 

In  the  Hospital 139 

If  You  Have  Made  Gentler  the  Churlish  World  140 

A  Tradesman  and  a  Poet 140 

The  House  of  Fortune 141 

As  I  Returned  to  the  Dim  of  My  Study  .     .     .142 

TALES 145 

The  Old  Magnolia  Tree 147 

Jeff 153 

PRAYERS 163 

A  Prayer 165 

An  Artist's  Prayer 165 

An  Easter  Prayer 167 

A  Prayer  of  Summer 168 

Evening  Song 168 

An  Autumn  Prayer 169 

Ships  Returning  Home 169 

Thou  Whom  We  Call  God 170 

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The  Poems  gT  Max  Ehrmann 


A  Winter  Prayer 170 

The  Last  Prayer 171 

CONFESSIONAL .173 

Prelude 175 

My  Native  City 175 

I  Sit  Afraid 178 

Life 178 

In  the  Morning  Twilight 179 

Eheu! 181 

Out  of  the  Depths 182 

Sterility 182 

The  Things  of  the  Spirit 184 

A  Psalm 185 

I  Am  Over  Anxious 185 

The  House  Inside 187 

Through  the  Mist  of  the  World 188 


The  Light  gf  the  Sun 


PERSONS 

CORONA  blind. 

MARAH  her  companion. 

HENRY  Marah's  brother. 

MICHAL  Corona's  husband. 


THE   LIGHT    OF   THE    SUN 

A  balcony,  enclosed  at  back  by  a  balustrade.  cBevond,  a  short  distance,  is 
the  sea.  The  swish  of  the^ater  running  on  the  sand  is  heard  no*to  and  then. 
The  time  is  Just  before  sunset. 

CORONA  enters,  and  feels  her  'way  along  the  balustrade,  then  across  the 
balcony  to  a  seat,  her  fingers  moving  nervously  through  the  air.  She  is  fair, 
tall,  and  of  sensitive  beauty. 

CORONA 
Marah! 

MARAH 
(From  <within.} 

Yes,  I  am  here,  and  come  at  once. 

Enter  MARAH,  a  dark,  animated  young  <woman.  She 
'walks  to  the  balustrade,  and  looks  toward  the  sunset 
and  the  sea. 

CORONA 

Marah. 

MARAH 
I  am  here  by  the  balustrade. 

CORONA 
You  came  so  softly  I  scarce  heard  your  steps. 

MARAH 
I  know  how  sweet  the  stillness  is  to  you. 

CORONA 
Is  Henry  coming? 

MARAH 

I  do  not  see  him. 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


*c'v:    .cS/'V*.*.'         CORONA 
What  time  is  it? 

MARAH 

The  sun  begins  to  sink, 
And  all  the  sky  is  filled  with  crimson  light. 

CORONA 

Within  your  voice  there  are  some  worship  notes, 
As  if  some  one  you  loved  had  pressed  your  lips. 

MARAH 

It  is  the  wonder  of  the  western  sky 
That  makes  one  ache  for  whispered  words  at  dusk, 
For  tenderness  that  drives  away  all  care, 
As  dark  pursues  the  lingering  light  of  day. 

CORONA 
Do  you  see  all  of  this  within  the  sky? 

MARAH 

Corona,  often  have  I  wondered  why 
It  is  the  evening  that  we  women  love. 

CORONA 

Because  it  is  the  time  of  coming  home, 
When  they  afield  and  journeying  seek  for  rest. 
Oh!  often  have  I  tried,  but  all  in  vain, 
To  see  again  the  sky  I  must  have  seen 
Ere  darkness  closed  its  door  and  shut  me  in. 
But  almost  nothing  I  remember  now 
Except  my  mother's  face.     (Calling.}  Marah! 

MARAH 

I  listen. 

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The  Light  §f  the  Sun 


CORONA 

And  I  have  told  you  how  it  comes  to  me 

At  night  as  I  lie  still  and  wait  for  sleep. 

I  think  in  all  the  world  there  must  be  naught 

As  wonderful  as  my  sweet  mother's  face. 

0  Marah,  tell  me  of  the  western  sky. 

1  understand  you  better  than  the  others. 
Did  you  not  say  it  was  like  tenderness? 

MARAH 
Like  tenderness. 

CORONA 

Then  all  things  beautiful 
Out  there  bring  tenderness.    I  understand. 

MARAH 
Yes. 

CORONA 

Then  is  Michal  unto  me  the  god 

Of  beauty.    When  I  hear  his  distant  voice, 

As  he  comes  up  the  way,  I  tremble  here, 

(Placing  her  hand  on  her  breast.) 

And  drink  the  sound  as  one  all  day  athirst. 

His  touch  of  hand  is  sunset  unto  me, 

His  lips  make  me  forget  my  eyes  are  dim. 

O  Marah! — are  you  listening? 

MARAH 

Yes,  I  listen. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


CORONA 

The  sunset  is  no  lure  to  me,  nor  moon, 
Nor  stars,  nor  dawn;  of  these  you  often  speak, 
And  often  I  have  heard  since  childhood  years. 
But  him  would  I  behold  who  sent  the  rain 
Upon  my  leaves,  and  made  the  birds  to  sing 
Upon  each  branch  within  my  lightless  woods. 
Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  sit 
Disconsolate,   like   brooding  winter   time, 
Or  like  some  aged  woman  by  a  fire 
Who  freezing  waits  the  kindly  touch  of  death? 
When  Michal  came  and  softly  pressed  my  lips, 
I  who  was  never  born  began  to  live 
And  feel  in  me  the  breath  of  things  unknown. 


MARAH 

(Smiling.) 

Quite  eloquent  you  grow. 


CORONA 

Were  you  not  so 

A  moment  since?    I  feel  you're  smiling  now. 
I  tell  you,  Marah,  life  is  naught  to  me 
Excepting  as  I  live  in  this  great  love; 
And  death's  cold  kiss  were  sweet  when  it  is  gone. 

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The   Light  tf  the   Sun 


MARAH 
(Coming  to  her.) 

Dear  heart,  'tis  true  I  did  a  moment  smile. 
But  what  if  you  and  I  were  both  deceived, 
My  wondrous  sunset  but  an  empty  thing 
That  lives  within  my  wandering  mind  alone, 
Your  kingly  Michal  but  a  restless  dream 
That  agitates  a  cavern  of  your  brain! 
O'er  all  of  us  illusion  spreads  her  wings 
Like  birds  that  warmly  nurse  their  brood  at  dusk. 
The  things  that  now  you  crave  to  see  may  take 
Away  your  joy. 

CORONA 

Your  speech  is  strange  to-night. 
I  like  it  not,  and  understand  it  not. 
Dear  Marah,  often  now  it  seems  to  me 
You  plunge  your  mind  in  these  chill  waves  of  thought. 
I  will  not  follow  you,  the  world  is  sweet 
And  warm.    Look  out  and  see  if  Henry  comes. 


MARAH 
I  look,  but  do  not  see  him  on  the  way. 

CORONA 
Does  tenderness  still  glow  within  the  west? 

MARAH 
More  beautiful  it  grows. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


CORONA 

Come,  play  a  while; 

Too  serious  we  have  been.    Do  tell  me,  Marah, 
Is  your  nose  as  straight  and  thin  as  mine,  thus. 
(Stroking  her  nose.) 

MARAH 
(Laughing.) 
I'm  glad  'tis  much  like  yours. 

CORONA 

But  Michal's  curves. 

And  here  (indicating)  just  here  doth  have  a  little  hump. 
Is  it  somewhat  the  same  with  other  men? 

MARAH 
'Tis  much  the  same  with  them. 

CORONA 

Who's  coming  now? 

MARAH 
I  hear  no  steps. 

CORONA 
Tis  Henry,  I  am  sure. 

MARAH 

(Looking  out  by  the  balustrade.) 
'Tis  he. 

CORONA 

I  would  that  he  did  hurry  now, 
For  he  will  bring  me  words  of  joy,  I  know. 

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The   Light  §f  the   Sun 

* * * 


MARAH 
What  words? 

CORONA 

O   Marah!  you   shall  hear  at   once. 
I  feel  that  ere  the  light  of  day  is  past 
I  shall  behold  the  world  I  crave  to  see, 
And  your  dear  sunset,  but  o'er  all  his  face! 
Long  have  I  nursed  this  hope  till  now  it  lives; 
And   Henry,   too,  has  bent  his  will  to  this, 
That  I  shall  see,  and  walk  no  more  in  darkness. 
I  have  not  told  you,  for  you  had  no  faith 
That  I  should  ever  look  upon  the  world. 
(Rising.) 

O   Henry,  Henry,   speed  your  steps  to   me, 
Who  knock  and  wait  before  the  door  of  light! 
Enter   HENRY. 

HENRY 

Good  news!    To-morrow  he  will  come  whose  art 
Will  send  the  sunlight  bounding  through  your  eyes. 
He  bade  me  counsel  you  prepare  to  see, 
For  very  near  at  hand  may  be  the  hour 
When  you  will  look  upon  the  sunlit  world. 
'Tis  said  the  fault  lies  not  within  your  eyes, 
For  they  are  like  twin  stars  set  in  the  night; 
And  soon — oh,  very  soon  may  be  the  time 
When  wide  the  doors  will  swing  to  let  light  in! 
Corona,  now — perhaps  this  very  hour 
You'll  cast  aside  the  leaden  cloak  of  night! 
Oh,  then  we  four  shall  dance  upon  the  air, 
And  make  such  revels  as  befits  our  joy! 
There's  no  mistake,  I  do  report  aright! 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


MARAH 
Henry— 

CORONA 

(Feeling  her  way  to  HENRY.    Interrupting.) 

Nay,  Marah,  you  must  let  me  speak. 
I  swear  to  God  if  He  will  give  me  light, 
That  I  may  once  behold  my  human  god, 
I'll  be  as  bending  as  a  babe  in  arms 
Unto  His  will,  and  ne'er  complain  again 
No  matter  what  the  slight  of  nature  be! 
How  often  in  the  evening  have  I  sat 
With  Michal  by  my  side,  and  heard  his  voice, 
That  stilled  the  tumult  of  my  restless  soul, 
My  truant  hand  would  steal  into  his  own — 
Oh!  I  have  felt  inside  my  head,  it  seemed 
Just  back  of  both  my  eyes,  an  urging  force 
Within  the  nerves  that  strove  to  break  the  wall, 
Like  some  wild  beast  that  beats  the  iron  bars. 
And  now  this  urging  force  begins  again, 
I  feel  the  throbs  each  time  it  strikes  a  blow. 
Already  I  do  know  that  light  is  born 
Within  the  darkened  chamber  of  my  brain; 
Already  I  do  look  upon  the  world — 
Our  world — his  world  and  mine!    The  sunlit  sea 
Shall  woo  me,  too,  and  so  the  wandering  moon; 
And  I  with  mine  own  eyes  shall  him  behold 
Who  raised  me  from  the  dead  and  taught  me  life. 
Where  is  he,  Henry?    I  must  find  him  now. 
(She  feels  her  <way  out,  calling.) 

O  Michal,  Michal! 

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The  Light  §f  the   Sun 

* * * 


MARAH 

See  what  you  have  wrought! 
Her  brain  have  you  set  going  as  the  wind; 
Her  hope  is  sharpened  like  an  edged  shaft 
That  will  but  cruelly  pierce  her  to  the  quick, 
If  failure  doom  this  doubtful  enterprise. 

HENRY 
It  will  not  fail.    I'm  sure  it  will  not  fail. 

MARAH 

A  thousand  times  more  mischief  have  you  wrought! 

Oh!  you  yourself  are  blinder  than  the  blind, 

Your  eyes  are  open,  yet  you  cannot  see! 

The  trees  you  see,  the  sunset,  and  the  moon; 

But  wandering  moons  and  sunsets  made  of  dreams, 

That  lift  our  lowly  life  to  higher  heights, 

Have  never  set  their  torch  within  your  brain. 

Think — do  we  live  by  sight  and  sound  alone? 

Far  more  we  dwell  within  the  gilded  house 

That  fancy  garnishes  with  beaten  gold. 

HENRY 

I  do  not  understand.     What  harm  if  light 
Be  brought  to  her  to  look  upon  the  world? 
I  did  but  think  to  do  a  kindly  deed. 
You  love  Corona  dearly — do  you  not? 

MARAH 

A  thousand  times  I  love  her  more  than  you, 
For  I  would  leave  her  to  her  world  of  dreams, 
Far  sweeter  than  this  world  that  we  both  see. 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


She  wanders  in  a  garden  where  each  flower, 
Though   it  lack   form   and   hue,   is   spirit  made; 
Her  heart  is  tenderer  than  springtime  dawn. 
Has  she  not  taught  us  all  that  life  is  good? 
'Tis  so  because  her  world  herself  she  makes. 
What  she  would  think  as  true,  is  true  for  her; 
Because  she  cannot  with  her  eyes  disprove. 
While  we  with  eyes  live  but  a  moment's  bliss, 
When  we  in  daydreams  run  away  and  leave 
Our  eyes  behind.     Oh!  can't  you  understand? 

HENRY 

I  own  I  do  not  understand  your  meaning 
That  blindness  better  is  than  sight. 

MARAH 

O  Henry, 
Must  I  spell  out  the  words,  pronounce  each  letter? 

HENRY 
You  are  unlike  yourself.    I'll  hear  no  more. 

MARAH 

Wait,  for  we  both  stand  this  quiet  evening 
Before  the  door  of  a  disrupted  house. 
Often  have  I  been  seized  with  fear  that  light 
Might  one  day  burst  into  her  sightless  eyes, 
And  she  too  suddenly  behold  the  world. 
Her  eyes  are  clear  and  look  like  mine  and  yours, 
Save  they  are  dreamier  than  distant  stars 
Upon  a  summer  night.    Now  mark  my  words: 
Long  have  I  known  by  simple  touch  of  skill, 
Or  by  some  chance,  or  by  the  growth  of  time, 
That  sunlight  through  Corona's  eyes  might  course, 
But  silent  have  I  kept. 

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The  Light  §f  the   Sun 


HENRY 
Oh,  monstrous! 

MARAH 
And  Michal,  too,  has  known. 

HENRY 

More  monstrous! 

MARAH 
And  fearful  have  we  been  that  she  might  see. 

HENRY 

What  touch  of  hell  has  tainted  both  your  souls! 

Contamination  has  been  brooding  here, 

And  you  would  blind  me  with  your  sophistry! 

MARAH 
Yourself  shall  punish  you  for  speech  like  this. 

HENRY 
I'll  hear  no  more. 

MARAH 

You  shall  hear  all  at  once. 
Though  pained,  I  pass  the  sting  you  gave  just  now. 

HENRY 

What  more  is  there  to  hear  than  I  have  heard! 
With  your  own  lips  have  you  condemned  yourself. 

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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


MARAH 

Be  careful  else  you  burn  the  only  bridge 
That  lies  between  us  two.    You  shall  hear  more. 
I'll  spell  the  words.    Oh!  with  your  noble  face 
How  can  you  be  as  stupid  as  a  child! 
We  two  shall  sadly  part  some  day  in  death, 
I  beg,  therefore,  you  listen  to  my  words. 
Corona  wanders  in  a  joyous  world 
That  is  not  ours,  a  world  of  beauty  made; 
And  if  that  world  be  marred,  it  is  her  death. 
Her  love  for  Michal  is —  Oh,  you,  a  man, 
How  can  you  understand  a  woman's  love! 
A  thousand,  thousand  times  more  dear  that  love 
Than  your  desire  for  my  own  chastity. 
He  is  the  balmy  summer  air  she  breathes, 
Her  consolation  by  the  winter  fire; 
And  in  the  night  she  sleeps  within  his  arms; 
And  once  she  told  me  that  he  wakened  her 
With  kisses  on  her  lips  each  breaking  morn. 
And  you,  O  brother,  you  would  this  destroy! 
For  think  of  him  the  Michal  of  her  dreams, 
And  him  the  Michal  that  we  daily  see; 
(MICHAL  has  entered  at  back,  and  stands  unobserved. 

His  face  is  terrible  to  behold.) 
The  ugly  pot  the  potter  marred  in  making, 
The  face  bedaubed  with  scarlet  marks  from  birth. 
Oh!  often  have  I  looked  upon  his  face, 
And  gone  without  and  spat  to  purge  myself; 
As  if  the  goodly  air  we  both  did  breathe 
Were  poisoned  by  his  breath.    If  he  by  chance 
Did  touch  me  with  his  lips,  some  lapse  in  nature 
Would  my  flesh  derange  with  torturing  pain, 
Like  women  who  are  slighted  in  their  birth. 

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The   Light  ef  the   Sun 


His  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  I've  seen  in  swine, 

Blinking  from   out  their  pulpy  bed  of  mire. 

Corona  feels  his  strong  and  gentle  soul; 

And  he  within  the  gallery  of  her  mind 

Is  like  some  noble-featured,  happy  prince, 

On  whom  the  gods  have  done  their  choicest  work. 

0  you,  my  brother,  will  not  rend  her  world, 
And  place  a  leech  upon  her  tender  throat! 
We  all  do  wander  in  our  different  dreams; 
Let  her  abide  in  hers,  her  love  of  him. 
(Turning,  she  sees  MICHAL.) 

Ugh!    Look,  Henry! 

HENRY 
Michal,  have  you  o'erheard? 

MICHAL 

1  have  o'erheard,  but  I  am  dead  within, 
And  blame  her  not.    We  both  have  lived  a  lie. 

0  Marah!    I  would  come  and  take  your  hand, 
But  I  would  spare  your  eyes  and  touch  the  pain; 

1  was  not  made  for  daytime,  but  the  night, 
And  have  no  heart  to  look  upon  myself. 
My  mother  oft  did  tell  me  long  ago 

That  I  a  suckling  babe  did  pain  her  breast; 

And  while  I  pressed  for  drink,  her  eyes  she  closed. 

In  childhood  human  playmates  had  I  none. 

The  dogs  were  kinder,  for  I  stroked  their  fur; 

And  all  my  early  love  I  gave  to  them, 

For  they  alone  were  pleased  to  be  by  me. 

And  as  the  world  its  back  upon  me  turned, 

Not  harder  but  more  tender  grew  my  heart. 

I  dared  not  go  about  in  time  of  day, 

Lest  by  some  jeer  my  soul  be  made  to  bleed. 

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The  Poemssf  Max  Ehrmann 


The  night  had  all  affection  for  my  youth; 

I  lay  upon  its  bosom  like  a  child, 

And  loved  the  candled  starlight  of  the  sky. 

I  trod  the  silver  of  the  milky  ways, 

As  one  would  journey  in  his  native  land; 

And  worshiped  as  an  ardent  neophyte 

Bows  low  in  prayer  before  his  soul's  own  god. 

Each  star  did  speak  to  me  in  silent  speech 

The  language  of  the  cities  made  of  gold. 

The  soft  night  wind  did  fill  my  listening  ears 

With  music  strange  from  out  some  distant  world; 

And  all  the  sorrow  of  the  ages  past 

Was  sweet  to  me,  for  I  was  made  of  sorrow. 

The  mighty  pillars  deep  within  my  soul 

Were  laid  there  by  my  sorrow,  calm  and  strong; 

And  I  had  learned  of  sorrow  how  to  love, 

And  sorrow  drove  me  forth  into  the  night 

Where  I  might  freely  look  upon  the  world. 

And  often  in  the  night  I  walked  abroad, 

And  spoke  with  men  who  could  not  see  my  face. 

And  women  at  the  nightly  festivals 

Oft  wandered  from  the  crowd  to  quiet  lanes; 

And  there,  enshrouded  by  the  kindly  dark, 

My  boyish  lips  did  speak  with  them. 

And  once  Corona  came.     With  her  alone 

I  dared  to  walk  beneath  the  sun  and  moon. 

And  then  we  both  did  meet  again,  again, 

Until  none  dared  to  part  us,  for  like  mine 

Her  life  was  bound  forever  in  this  love. 

At  first  when  I  did  speak  of  lacking  grace 

Of  feature,  I  was  bidden  to  be  silent; 

She  said  I  was  but  weary  and  disheartened, 

Denying  me  the  right  to  judge  myself. 


The  Light  $f  the  Sun 


When  oft  again  I  spoke,  she  would  not  hear, 
And  playful,  like  a  child,  did  stop  her  ears. 
The  tide  of  love  did  bear  us  quickly  hence; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  gods  did  guide  our  course. 
Together  grew  the  fiber  of  our  lives, 
Ere  I  could  think  what  had  befallen  us. 
To  her  I  wear  the  visage  of  a  king. 
Oh!  I  have  wronged  Corona,  and  should  die! 

MARAH 
I,  too,  have  wronged  her. 

HENRY 
I  much  more  than  both. 

MICHAL 
My  soul  is  sick  as  one  who  looks  on  death. 

MARAH 

O  Michal!  grieve  no  more,  let  tears  be  mine, 
If  I  could  weep,  at  once  I'd  call  them  forth. 
We  all  do  love  her  as  a  mother  loves, 
Save  you,  who  worship — 
(CORONA  heard  catting  near  the  balustrade.) 

Michal!    Michal! 

MARAH 

Peace! 

Now  let  our  wills  be  masters  of  ourselves. 
Let  not  this  house  of  glass  break  at  our  feet. 
(CORONA  nearer.) 
O  Michal!    Michal! 
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The  Poems  gf  Max  Ehrmann 


MICHAL 
I  shall  speak  to  her. 

MARAH 

It  must  not  be,  we  are  distracted  yet, 
And  should  betray  ourselves.    Let  her  pass  on, 
Till  we  in  calm  bethink  what  shall  be  done. 
For  love  of  her  forbear,  forbear  to  speak! 
Break  not  the  golden  dream.    Let  her  pass  on. 
( Whispering.) 
Now  silence. 
(A  pause.) 
CORONA  enters. 

CORONA 

(Feeling  her  <way  along  the  balustrade.) 

Michal,  Michal! 

(Farther  on.)  Michal!  Michal! 

(Near  the  end  of  the  balustrade.) 
O   Marah,  Henry,  Michal,  Michal!     Gone. 
(Lifting  her  arms  toward  MICHAL.    Joyfully.) 
O  Michal,  Michal!     I  shall  see  you,  Michal! 
(CORONA  passes  off.    Heard  in  the  distance.) 
Michal,  Michal! 
(A  pause.    More  faintly.) 

Michal,  Michal! 

MARAH 

Quickly, 

My  brother,  follow  close  behind  her  steps, 
So  nothing  that  is  ill  befall  her  now. 
She  wanders  in  a  maddened  fit  of  joy. 

(Exit  HENRY.) 
26 


The  Light  §f  the   Sun 


MICHAL 

With  her  enshrouded  eyes  she  stared  at  me, 
And  I  beheld  the  hate  of  all  the  world. 
The  stars  of  all  my  life  dash  through  the  sky. 
The  end  is  near.    If  she  behold  my  face, 
I  am  as  one  already  mute  in  death. 

MARAH 

Speak  not  too  loud  lest  we  be  overheard. 
Although  I  cannot  look  upon  your  face, 
I  see  your  soul,  and  inwardly  I  weep. 
A  thousand,  thousand  lies  I've  lived  for  you; 
Because  your  heart  is  tender  as  a  rose, 
And  you  her  lonely  life  have  filled  with  love. 
I'll  serve  you  to  the  limit  of  my  power. 
Now  let  us  both  arouse  our  saner  selves, 
And  think  what  shall  be  done.    Come,  come,  Michal, 
And  draw  thyself  together,  like  the  soul 
I  know  thou  art. 

MICHAL 

Already  she  is  changed, 
The  light  is  piercing  through  her  starless  night. 

MARAH 

Come,  come,  this  is  the  image  made  of  fear. 
I'll  go  myself  and  cool  her  flaming  mind, 
That  withers  up  the  garden  of  her  life. 
Stay  here  till  I  return;  and  then  we  three 
Shall  try  our  might  to  smother  out  her  hope. 

MICHAL 

I  cannot,  she  hath  set  her  soul  on  this. 
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The  PoernssT  Max  Ehrmann 


MARAH 

Forbear  to  speak  to  her  till  I  return. 

If  power  be  mine  this  temple  shall  not  falL 

(Stiffs  off  as  HENRY  enters.) 

HENRY 

Marah,  she  still  calls  for  you  and  Michal, 

And  laughs  and  weeps  as  does  a  fitful  child; 

She  bade  me  quickly  find  and  fetch  her  husband. 

"Ah,  first  of  all  my  eyes  shall  drink  him  in," 

She  says  again  and  o'er  again,  and  thus 

And  thus  she  smites  her  forehead  with  her  hand. 

What  shall  be  done? 

MICHAL 

I'll  go  to  her  at  once, 

While  yet  her  eyes  are  without  earthly  light. 
She  suffers  now,  I  cannot  stay.  (Starts  off.) 

HENRY 

Michal, 
Wait,  look! 

MARAH 

She  comes  and  does  not  feel  her  way. 
Be  silent  both  and  let  me  speak  to  her. 
(A  pause.) 

(CORONA  heard  catting  in  the  distance.) 
Michal,  Michal! 

(Nearer.) 

Michal,  Michal! 

(She  enters.) 


The  Light  §f  the   Sun 


CORONA 

(Agitated.)  Marah! 

MARAH 
Corona,  do  a  moment  calm  yourself. 

CORONA 

O  touch  me  not! 

MARAH 
I  am  not  touching  you. 

CORONA 

Yes,  yes  you  are;  your  hand  is  on  my  head. 

A  piercing  pain  runs  through  my  throat  and  breast. 

(Moving  frantically  backward  and  f award.} 

Michal,  Michal!   Tell  me,  where  is  he?    Speak! 

This  instant  something  comes  to  life  in  me. 

O  Marah,  something  batters  at  my  head, 

It  is  the  world  outside  that  would  come  in, 

And  light  the  candles  of  my  darkened  house! 

MARAH 
Corona!— 

CORONA 

Nay,  let  me  enjoy  this  birth, 
For  to  myself  I  now  bring  forth  a  world, 
The  world  you  oft  have  told  me  of— tenderness, 
The  world  of  him  I  love. 
(Abruptly  facing  the  sunset.    A  piercing  cry.) 

Look,  look,  the  sun! 
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The  Poems  §f  Max  Ehrmann 


Michal,  Marah,  the  world  is  born— I  see! 
(Throws  herself  aboat  HENRY'S  neck.) 
Michal,  Michal!   (Pressing  her  face  against  his.) 

Michal,  Michal,  kiss  me! 
Thou  heaven  born,  why  art  thou  silent  now? 
My  eyes  do  drink  thee  in.    My  lips  do  thirst. 
Oh,  moisten  thou  my  lips  with  seas  of  love! 
O  Michal,  speak,  that  I  may  hear  thy  voice 
And  see  thee  all  at  once — Michal,  Michal! 
Draw  not  away  from  me,  loose  not  my  grasp; 
Thy  touch  is  cold,  and  palsied  is  thy  tongue! 

HENRY 
Let  me  but  stand  aside. 

CORONA 

Thy  voice — thy  voice! 
(Drawing  afoay.) 

'Tis  changed — 'tis  not  thy  voice — 'tis  Henry's  voice! 
Michal,  Michal,  where  is  he — where  is  he? 
(Faces  MICHAL,  shrinking.) 
Who  is  this? 

MARAH 
(Quickly.)      A  stranger  just  come  to  us. 

CORONA 

(To  MICHAL.) 

Begone,  thy   face   doth  hurt  my  new-born  sight. 

MARAH 

He  came  to  tell  us  Michal— 

30 


The  Light  §f  the  Sun 


CORONA 

(Interrupting.)    Let  him  speak. 


MARAH 
(Quickly) 
He  cannot,  he  is  mute. 


CORONA 

You  said  he  came 
To  tell— 

MARAH 

(Interrupting. ) 

He  did  but  motion  with  his  hands. 

CORONA 

Take  him  away,  I  will  not  look  on  him, 
His  face  doth  sicken  me. 
(MICHAL  drawing  a  dagger  stabs  himself  in  the  breast.) 

MARAH 

(Rushing  t&ward  him.) 

Michal!  Michal! 
Great  God,  forbear— forbear!    Michal!  Michal! 


CORONA 

Give  me  the  dagger,  I  will  pierce  my  eyes, 
And  sit  again  with  Michal  in  the  night. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


HENRY 

(Seizing  her.) 
Corona — 

CORONA 

I  grow  sick,  my  limbs  grow  weak; 
Some  fit  of  dreaming  has  turned  cold  my  blood. 
The  hand — the  withered  hand  that  holds  the  knife — 
Oh!  wake  me,  Michal!   Michal!  (Sinking  on  his  body.) 

Michal!  Michal! 


CURTAIN 


Portraits  §f  Women 


HER   ACCEPTANCE 

I'LL  give  my  answer  now,  dear;  it  is  "yes." 
More  gently  or  you'll  hurt  me — yet  'tis  bliss — 
Now  but  once  more,  and — and  once  more — 'tis  bliss! 
Wait,  dear;  let  us  sit  still  a  while  and  talk, 
You  in  that  chair  and  I  in  this  one  here, 
A  little  while,  not  long,  I'm  sure  you  will. 
I  wish  to  tell  you  something — now,  to-night, 
Before  we  go  too  far  in  this  new  way. 
You  do  not   start;  that  shows  your  faith  in  me: 
It  is  about  my  future,  not  my  past, 
You  know  I  have  not  lived  much  in  my  life; 
But  I  have  thought  and  seen  the  lives  of  others, 
Of  women  who  have  gone  with  men  in  marriage. 
Don't  be  impatient,  dear,  I'll  not  be  long; 
I  know  you  think  it  is  some  idle  tale 
By  which  I  hope  to  make  you  laugh — but  no. 
And  please — a  little  while;  I   cannot  think, 
I  only  dream,  when  you  have  hold  my  hand. 
So — that  is  better,  you  off  there,  I  here— 
A  little  while. 

I  have  but  one  regret, 
I  wish  I  came  to  you  as  free  as  air. 
A  few  of  us  can  come  to  men  that  way, 
By  fortune  favored  with  inheritance, 
Or  by  some  genius,  got  I  know  not  how. 
But  most  of  us  come  sadly  empty  handed. 
The  world  will  not  let  us  come  otherwise, 
And  we  are  still  dependent  creatures  all. 
I  wish  you  did  not  have  to  buy  me,  dear. 
I  am  so  much  degraded  by  the  sale 
That  were  you  some  one  else  I  should  not  sell. 
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The  Poems  gf  Max  Ehrmann 


0  that  I  were  as  free  to  choose  as  you, 
And  yet  I'm  sure  I  should  choose  only*  you. 
When  once  I  go  from  here  to  be  with  you, 
I'll  be  a  heavy  weight  upon  your  back. 
Alone  you  might  have  freely  gone  your  way, 
No  common  slave  of  endless  dreary  toil; 

But  now  you  bind  yourself  upon  the  rocks 
For  me  and  little  children  born  of  us. 
And  should  you  fail  of  cunning  at  your  task, 
And  fail  to  work  and  lie  and  bind  men  down 
To  serve  your  aim  for  gold,  then  all  is  done 
With  you;  then  must  you  sweat  until  you  die. 
Because  of  me  you'll  grind  and  sweat  the  more; 
And  unborn  babes  will  cry  into  your  ears 
With  voices  real  that  whip  your  tired  life 
To  longer  hours.    And  your  sad  drudgery 

1  cannot  help;  'twill  pierce  me  to  the  soul. 
And  though  I  suffer,  too,  and  daily  toil, 
Eternal  servant  of  a  child's  caprice, 

I  still  shall  be  a  weight  upon  your  back. 

Ah!  now  your  heart  is  filled  with  noble  things, 
Love,  music,  and  the  sky.    You  walk  on  clouds, 
The  world  is  as  a  garden  set  with  jewels, 
And  softly  sweetened  as  a  room  perfumed. 
For  you  all  this  shall  change  as  I  have  said, 
I  hear  you  groan  beneath  your  heavy  load, 
I  feel  no  more  your  tender,  sweet  young  soul, 
I  see  your  head  bound  down  upon  your  task, 
Lest  some  one  steal  your  task  and  take  our  bread. 
At  this  great  cost  you  pay  for  me,  and  I — 
I  should  deny  you  nothing  at  this  price. 
And  through  the  ages  women  somehow  know, 

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Portraits  §f  Women 


By  history  taught,  that  they  must  yield  themselves. 

This  is  the  thing  they  give  for  the  price  men  pay, 

Although  it  often  be  a  gift  of  shame. 

And  I  have  known  some  in  this  commerce  long, 

Returning  every  piece  of  gold  they  cost 

With  outraged  inches  of  their  tender  flesh. 

Dear  heart,  with  us  let  it  be  otherwise; 

And  though  you  pay  for  me  this  bitter  price, 

Still  let  us  both  be  owners  of  ourselves, 

And  never  touch  save  out  of  love. — Kiss  me. 

YES  OR  NO 

(Suggested  by  the  painting  of  Sir  John  Millais.) 

I  KNOW  my  heart  and  yet  I  answer  not, 
For  some  I've  seen  grow  sad  by  deep  regret. 
Better  than  love  that  fails  is  solitude, 
Barren  and  hungry-hearted  to  the  last. 
It  has  still  the  happiness  of  day  dreams, 
For  love  that  fails  awakes  the  sleeper  quick 
With  ruthless  hands  of  saddened  memory. 
Better  is  solitude  that  still  is  sweet 
In  thought  and  not  unkindly  looked  upon, 
Whose  virgin  cheeks  remember  not  love's  kiss 
At  break  of  dawn  nor  in  night's  deepest  sleep, 
Whose  breast  is  strange  to  touch  of  children's  lips. 
Far   better   not   to   know   love's   throbbing   joy, 
Than  sadly  to  remember  love  is  dead, 
And  hear  cold  words  that  once  were  soft  and  sweet, 
And  feel  no  more  the  press  of  eager  arms 
Where  oft  thy  head  did  lie  in  bliss  at  eve, 
And  deign  to  beg  where  once  thou  didst  permit. 
Give  me  stern  love  that's  fierce  in  jealousy, 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


Ardent,  like  love  that's  born  by  open  fields 

In  silence  save  the  soft  winds  whispering, 

And  grows  each  starry  night  by  garden  stile, 

And  lingers  late  before  the  last  farewell; 

So  strange  and  wondrous  sweet  it  would  not  part 

But  for  the  swiftly  moving  pallid  stars 

That  call  ere  long  the  noiseless  break  of  dawn; 

Love  that  does  not  forget  the  first  sweet  kiss, 

The  gentle,  hesitating   touch   of  hand, 

That  blissful  calm  that  made  us  one  at  first 

By  cheerful  glow  of  winter  evening  fire; 

Such  love  that  stronger  grows  through  changing  years, 

When  age  shall  steal  the  rose  from  oft7  my  cheek 

And  dim  my  eyes  and  bend  me  slowly  down. 

And  in  that  distant  time  wilt  thou  forget 

The  ancient  trees  'neath  which  we  sat  at  dusk, 

And  how,  like  twilight's  spreading  dark,  our  souls 

Went  forth  with  night's  still  music  o'er  the  world, 

And  we  both  dwelt  again  in  olden  times 

By  glistening  shores  of  sun-kissed  golden  seas, 

And  heard  the  echoed  songs  of  all  the  world 

Resound  as  softer  grew  the  thickening  dark? 

Love's  music  old,  wilt  thou  then  break  the  reed 

In  twain  by  cruel  neglect   of  thy  warm  lips? 

Or  wilt  thou  find  the  music  sweeter  still, 

Like  early  childhood's  oft- repeated  songs? 

Though  I  pale  before  thee  on  life's  long  way, 

Wilt  thou  then  still  find  joy  in  all  my  smiles? 

And  sit  with  gladness  by  my  side  at  eve? 

And  walk  with  me  through  memory's  olden  lanes, 

To  mark  again  the  hallowed  spots  where  first 

Thou  kissed  my  cheek  and  shyly  spoke  my  name — 

Where  once  with  saddened  hearts  we  quarreled  a  while, 


Portraits  §f  Women 


And  thou  with  moistened  eyes  besought  my  love, 

Which  was  again  thine  own  ere  thou  didst  ask — 

And  where  in  shade  of  yonder  sighing  woods 

Oft  tranced  I  sat  and  listened  to  thy  hopes, 

And  silently  implored  a  part  in  all 

Close  by  thy  side  through  joyous  coming  years? 

When  once  I  give  thee  all  wilt  thou  forget, 

In  stress  of  other  things,  to  kiss  the  lips 

That  yearn  for  thee  by  lonely  evening  light? 

Then  wilt  thou  whisper  in  my  ear  as  now, 

And  set  astir  the  chords  of  love's  sweet  dream, 

And  say  the  things  that  draw  me  close  to  thee 

Ere  slumber  close  our  eyes  in  still  of  night? 

I  hear  again  thy  oft  repeated  vows. 

Would  thou  wert  nigh  to  still  my  wavering  thoughts, 

And  speak  once  more  the  words  that  are  my  bliss — 

That  feed  my  heart  which  thou  hast  hunger  taught. 

HER   SOLITUDE 

MY  LIFE  is  still  to-night,  no  bitterness, 
Nor  joy;  and  but  one  endless  thought  creeps  out, 
As  dreaming  here  I  sit  and  think  about 
My  days  that  pass  without  dear  love's  caress. 
And  yet,  O  God!  I  cannot,  cannot  guess 
Why  lonely  I  must  dwell  and  ever  doubt 
The  time  will  come  when  he,  my  own,  will  rout 
My  fears  and  all  my  restless  heart's  distress. 
Why  didst  thou  plant  in  me  this  longing  so 
That  in  my  wake  and  sleep  forever  calls 
And  yet  beyond  my  pale  of  fortune  falls? 
Not  always  I'll  be  young,  the  bloom  will  go. 
All  this,  O  God!  I  have  not  understood. 
Am  I  not  worthy — have  not  I  been  good? 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


HER    DREAM 

I  THOUGHT  I  lived  with  you  beneath  a  sun 
Whose  golden  rays  ne'er  left  the  deep  blue  sky, 
But  shone  and  shone  where  rolling  meadows  lie 
With   dew  as  when  the   day  had  just  begun, 
And  danced  in  leafy  vales  where  waters  run 
And  where  the  sweet  brook's  murmurs  never  die, 
And  on  the  mountain  peak's  so  still  and  high 
Which  all  but  fearless  strong-winged  birds  must  shun. 
I  thought  that  time  went  sweet  and  soft  and  slow, 
And  left  no  marks  save  those  of  gentleness 
That  bound  you  to  my  life  with  strong  caress; 
And  you  saw  naught  but  all  my  soul's  deep  truth, 
No  fading  bloom,  nor  form  the  years  bent  low, 
But  ever  still  the  beauty  of  my  youth. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION 

AM  I  not  meek? 
I  give  my  hand,  my  lips,  my  cheek, 
My  dear,  to  you, 
My  life,  my  soul;  and  shall  not  rue. 

Sink  deep  in  joy 

And  revel  long;  I'll  be  your  toy, 

My  dear.     From  now 

To  play  the  part  you'll  teach  me  how. 

To  your  desire 

Of  dawn  and  dark,  though  like  the  fire, 

My  dear,  I  yield, 

As  withered  grass  in  a  burning  field. 

40 


Portraits  §f  Women 


Your  heart's  caprice, 

For  all  of  me,  will  it  ne'er  cease, 

My  dear,  to  cling 

To  both  the  flesh  and  soul  I  bring? 


THE    ONE    MAN 

THE  written  law  and  the  custom  had  denied  me  love. 
But  as  with  other  women,  instinct  had  taught  me 
to  be  silent.    I  was  in  the  flower  of  my  youth,  and  each 
day  I  hungered  more  and  more. 

Still,  when  I  uttered  a  sound,  the  elders  raised  their 
fingers,  and  shamed  me  to  silence,  saying  that  love  was 
only  according  to  the  written  law  and  the  custom. 

Thus  a  year  passed,  and  several  years  passed,  and  the 
flower  of  my  youth  began  to  fade,  and  the  eternal 
hunger  in  my  heart  made  me  sick  of  soul,  and  joy  was 
no  more  in  me. 

Then  one  night  I  lifted  my  eyes  again  to  the  god  of 
my  childhood,  and  again  earnestly  I  sought  an  answer 
in  the  stars;  when  lo!  I  saw  that  the  written  law  and 
the  custom  were  man-made,  and  that  the  hunger  in 
my  heart  and  the  flower  of  my  youth  were  God-made. 

And  I  trod  forth  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  yield 
myself  to  the  arms  that  would  hold  me  fast,  and  to 
the  lips  that  would  moisten  mine.  And  my  heart  beat 
as  never  before,  and  the  stars  sang,  and  the  night  and 
the  god  of  the  night  smiled  upon  me. 


The  Poems  sfMax  Ehrmann 


And  when  I  came  to  the  arms  that  would  hold  me  fast 
and  the  lips  that  would  moisten  mine  to  give  myself 
up,  I  said,  "Here,  pluck  the  flower  of  my  youth,  and 
feed  my  heart." 

But  the  arms  of  him  I  loved  were  listless  and  would 
entwine  me  not,  nor  would  his  lips  press  mine;  and 
there  was  some  talk,  and  I  cried  aloud  bitterly,  under 
standing  not.  Then  said  he  I  loved,  "The  written  law 
and  the  custom  would  crucify  you  on  the  street  before 
all  the  people." 

I  went  away,  and  walked  in  the  dim  night,  wondering 
why  the  people  should  deny  the  will  of  God,  and  punish 
them  that  obey  His  command,  for  the  love  in  me  was 
heaven-born. 

And  soon  thereafter  I  returned  to  him  I  loved,  and 
said,  "I  will  endure  the  punishment  of  the  written  law 
and  the  custom,  touch  me,  touch  me,  touch  me  with 
your  hand!  and  I  will  proclaim  my  joy  aloud;  for  what 
is  wrought  in  love's  name  is  justified  of  God." 

"Then,"  said  he,  "must  you  perish,  for  they  that  need 
the  written  law  and  the  custom  will  not  hold  them 
guiltless  that  need  it  not." 

"Death  be  welcome,"  I  cried,  "better  a  thousand  times 
to  live  an  hour  and  love  and  die  at  once,  in  the  night, 
or  be  stoned  upon  the  street,  than  die  by  inches,  to 
wither  and  rot,  and  grow  into  old  age  as  some  un- 
watered  flowerless  vine,  creeping  over  the  juiceless 
earth,  ugly  to  behold  and  barren." 

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"Wait,"  palliated  my  love,  "perhaps  all  shall  be  fulfilled 
even  yet  according  to  the  written  law  and  the  custom. 
Wait!" 

"Waited  have  I  all  these  years.  The  fruit  is  ripe,  the 
time  is  here,  it  is  the  season.  See,  I  am  still  beautiful, 
the  rose  still  lights  my  cheek,  my  eyes  not  yet  are 
dim,  my  bosom  breathes  like  wind-swept  fields  of  grain, 
and  I  nightly  dream  the  dream  of  women  loved!" 

Then  he  said,  "The  written  law  and  the  custom  are  for 
the  good  of  all  the  people,  and  the  good  of  all  the 
people  is  the  will  of  God.  Wait!" 

"No,"  I  cried,  "I  will  have  my  hand  touched  by  you 
whom  I  love.  I  will  walk  with  you  in  the  evening  and 
in  the  night  unafraid,  and  I  will  not  part  from  you; 
the  dawn  shall  be  a  knell  for  twain  in  your  house,  and 
the  dusk  shall  not  divide  us." 

"Wait!"  said  he  again. 

"I  will  tear  down  the  walls  that  surround  me,  break 
the  locks  that  imprison  me,  pull  back  the  veil  that 
blinds  me.  A  mountain  of  laws  shall  not  deny  me,  nor 
a  sea  of  ice  freeze  my  desire.  I  was  made  to  breathe 
the  sweet,  and  though  death  steal  upon  me  at  dusk,  this 
day  shall  I  follow  the  voice  of  the  stars  and  the.  god 
of  the  stars." 

Softly  he  said,  "Too  much  I  love  you;"  and  touching 
me  with  his  hand,  he  led  me  to  where  the  day  was 
darkening;  and  long  we  sat  and  spake  no  word,  for  the 
tumult  was  not  of  human  speech;  and  soon  the  night 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


came,  and  the  stars  crept  through  the  dark;  yet  spake 
he  no  word,  nor  touched  me  again  with  his  hand. 

And  after  a  long  time,  in  perfect  calm,  he  whispered, 
"We  will  obey  the  law;"  and  arising,  we  wandered 
slowly  off  together,  out  into  the  light  and  the  world. 


I  GIVE  MYSELF  FOR  LOVE 

OYOU  who  love  me,  do  you  wish  to  bind 
Me  fast;   when   you  grow  cold 
That  no  escape  I  find? 

My  heart  I  cannot  barter  for   all  days, 
Though  swearing  with  my  tongue 
A  thousand,  thousand  ways. 

The  house   of  love  is   spirit,  and  no  key 
Will  firmly  close  its  doors 
Forever  and  for  thee. 

Yet  if  you  love  but  me,  the  one  true  way, 
Without  agreements  long, 
I'll  go  with  you  to-day. 

But  if  by  spring  or  noon  of  summer  you 
Look  sad  upon  my  face, 
We'll  smile  and  say  adieu. 

Glad,  glad  that  we  have  tasted  to  the  core 
The  sweet  of  all  the  world, 
Though  we  shall  taste  no  more. 

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For  this  I  give  my  all — below,  above, 
On  earth,  and  after  it — 
I  give  myself  for  love. 


T 

JL  « 


A    WOMAN    ROCKING    HER    CHILD 
SEE  that  you  are  rocking  him  again." 
Oh,  yes!" 


"You're  spoiling  him  by  custom  of  that  sort, 
And,  too,  you  tire  yourself,  who  need  more  rest." 

"I  love  to  rock  him  so  each  night." 
"Shall  I  recount  to  you  a  gruesome  tale?" 
"Yes,  if  you  like." 
"Then  stop,  don't  rock  a  while." 

"No,  no,  it  might  awaken  him.     See  how 
He  sleeps.     I  listen  now;  recite  the  tale 
By  which  for  sport  you  seek  to  frighten  me. 
I'm  not  afraid,  too  rich  am  I  in  joy." 

"It  is  the  history  of  a  child,  like  him. 

To  make  the  tale  more  real,  it  is  the  child 

You  rock  so  softly  now  as  he  shall  live 

Till  death  has  gently  kissed  you  on  the  lips. 

For  months  his  mother,  yoa,  will  toil  for  him 

From  morn's  first  twilight  till  the  day  is  done. 

And  though  you're  worn,  you'll  rock  him  every  evening. 

Soon  one  by  one  the  breaths  of  each  disease 

Will  seek  to  quench  the  candle  of  his  life, 

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Until  his   tender  flesh   shall  livid  grow; 
And  every  time  'twill  be  like  letting  blood 
Directly  from  the  chambers   of   your  heart. 
Then  you,  on  his  account,  stabbed  at  his  birth, 
And  worn  by  days  of  anxious  servitude, 
Shall  fall  so  deep  into  the  gaping  pit 
Of  death  that  life  will  seem  far  off  and  strange. 
If  this  you  knew  would  surely  come  to  pass 
Would  you  as  now  continue  rocking  him?'* 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"A  lusty  child  in  his   eleventh  year — 
One  day  while  chastening  him,  he'll  strike  you  back; 
And  there  will   be  a  bruise  upon  your  hip. 
Would  you  continue  rocking  him — ?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Until  his  fifteenth  year  a  million  times 

He  will  annoy  you  with  his  many  wants; 

And  you  shall  be  this  wanton's  perfect  victim. 

One  day,  with  friends,  some  worthless  thing  he'll  steal; 

And  you  will  humbly  go  before  the  judge 

And  plead  for  him,  inside  the  prisoners'  dock. 

This  shame  will  be  a  poison  in  your  blood. 

Will  you  continue  rocking  him?" 

"Yes." 

"He  will  be  handsome—" 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  of  that!" 

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"He  will  be  handsome,  and  at  twenty-four 

A  maid  he'll  wed  against  her  father's  wish. 

Though  rich,  he'll  turn  the  lovers  from  his  door. 

And  you  will  plan,  economize,  and  toil 

For  years,  as  one  in  bondage  held  by  them, 

That  these  two  idle  ones  shall  feel  no  want. 

Knowing  that,  will  you  continue  rocking  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  some  years  more,  when  you  are  stooped  with  care, 
Her  father,  reconciled,  will  bid  them  come 
And  live  with  him;  and  they  will  be  installed 
Behind  the  battlements  of  all  his  wealth. 
Will  you  be  happy  then?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"The  years  are  moving  swiftly;  there  will  be 
Some  white  and  silver  hair  upon  your  head, 
And  forward  you  will  stoop  a  little  more, 
And  your  right  limb  will  pain  you  with  each  step. 
You  will  not  often  get  to  see  your  son. 
One  day  henceforth  he  will  avoid  your  calls; 
And  you'll  be  asked  to  come  in  at  the  rear, 
The  servants'  entrance.     You  will  sway  a  little, 
As  one  who's  hurt,  and  part  of  you  will  die. 
That  true,  will  you  continue   rocking  him, 
Who  lies  so  helpless  there  within  your  arms?" 

"Yes." 

"That  other  sweeter  tie  is  snapped  by  death, 
And  you  will  be  alone  in  all  the  world — 
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Alone,  except  this  full-grown  man,  your  son. 
One  day  his  wife,  whom  you  had  spared  from  want, 
Will  tell  you  not  to  kiss  her  children's  lips, 
Because — you  will  not  hear  the  reason  given; 
And  you  will  speak  of  it  to  him,  your  son; 
And  he  will  tell  you  that  he  has  no  time 
To  listen  to  the  twaddle  of  old  age; 
And  he  will  go  to  join  his  jolly  friends, 
And  you  will  sit  alone.    If  you  knew  that 
Would  you  continue  rocking  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  there  will  be  a  mighty  scene  take  place; 

The  actors  will  be  he,  his  wife,  and  you. 

Your  head  will  be  the  color  of  the  snow, 

And  there  will  be  a  tremor  in  your  voice, 

Your  eyes  will  be  moist  with  the  sorrows  of  age. 

You'll  speak  to  him  of  recent  ills  you  bore, 

Injustices  provoked  by  him  and  her; 

You  will  recount  the  love  of  other  years, 

His  childhood,  how  you  rocked  him  in  the  dark, 

And  nursed  him  year  by  year  with  tender  care. 

But  he  will  shake  his  head  impatiently, 

And  speak  as  if  he  had  not  heard  your  words. 

Henceforth  your  every  action  will  be  watched, 

As  one  that  wanders  in  uncertain  dreams; 

And  gone  will  be  the  world  you  knew  in  youth, 

And  loneliness  will  sit  within  your  soul. 

Will  you  continue  rocking  him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  then  at  last  you'll  gladly  fall  asleep; 
And  as  you  go  out  to  your  earthen  bed, 


Portraits  §f  Women 

* * * 

He'll  have  his  empty  carriage  follow  you. 

Would  you  indeed  continue  rocking  him 

If  this — all  this — you  knew  would  come  to  pass?" 

"Yes." 

"I  cannot  understand." 

"Of  course  you  can't." 

"Again  I  say  I  cannot  understand." 

"Of  course  you  can't,  you're  but  his  father,  dear." 

THE   LOVE-MAD   HUBS' 

AT  EVE  hard  by  Neponset's  crystal  wave— 
Neponset's   gleaming  wave — 
I  saw  her  last.    The  night  was  wild, 
The  dark  fell  fast,  and  cold  the  blast, 

And  all  alone  she  ran; 
Along  the  snowy  path  no  sound  she  gave 
That  eve  hard  by  Neponset's  crystal  wave. 

Her  pallid  face,  part  hid  by  fallen  hair, 

Long,  streaming,  waving  hair, 
The  wind  made   rise  and  fall  and  curl; 
And  wild  the  guise  about  her  eyes 

As  she  ran  by  me  swift, 
All  open  at  the  throat,  her  arms  both  bare, 
Her  pallid  face  part  hid  by  fallen  hair. 
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I  watched  her  as  she  sped  along  the  night, 

The  glimmer  of  the  night, 
Till  she  was  gone.    I  went  to  rest, 
Yet  ever  on  until  the  dawn 

She  ran  within  my  sleep, 
Her  hair  awry,  her  face  a  haggard  white — 
I  watched  her  as  she  sped  along  the  night. 

Next  morning  as  I  walked  upon  the  shore, 

Neponset's  blustrous  shore, 
I  saw  barred  tight  a  mourning  house, 
To  mark  the  flight  a  soul  that  night 

Had  made.    Of  one  I  asked, 

"Who's  dead?" — "The  love-mad  huss,  she  is  no  more — 
Was  found  at  dawn  upon  the  frozen  shore." 

Now  ever  on  that  gusty,  fitful  shore, 

Neponset's  icy  shore, 
I  see  her  go  through  night's  wild  blast, 
In  lonely  woe,  still  to  and  fro; 

The  marble  face,  the  eyes 
Of  withered  white — she  paces  evermore 
Upon  Neponset's  fitful,  icy  shore. 


TO    HER    HUSBAND 

I  THOUGHT  of  our  wedding,  a  long  time  ago, 
The  noise  that  it  made  and  the  grand  public  show. 
You  said  I  was  charmingly  beautiful,  dear — 
You're  thinking  it  still?    That  sounds  good  to  the  ear 
Of  even  a  wife  who  is  losing  no  sleep 
Concerning  the  love  that  she  never  could  keep. 
I  knew  you  were  rich,  but  you're  much  richer  now. 
How  mad  we  both  were  on  our  hearing  of  how 

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The  friend  of  our  bosom  depicted  us  two 

As  animal  things  with  ideas  so  few! 

When  once  you've  extracted  his  joy-giving  juice — 

A  friend — what's  a  friend  but  a  thing  for  abuse? 

If  life  never  taught  us  another  dread  thing, 

It  taught  us  that  lesson  with  many  a  sting. 

It  seems  long  ago  that  we  lived  through  that  day. 

I'm  weary  again  and  without  much  delay 

Should  leave  you  at  once  for  a  journey  quite  far — 

You  say  you'd  be  glad  if  I  went  to  a  star? 

It's  pitiful  how  we  both  sit  here  and  stare, 

All  wilted  inside  in  this  stifling  air. 

Each  time  I  came  back  from  my  journeying,  then 

We  lighted  the  candle   of  pleasure  again. 

It  burned  and  it  burned  and  it  much  smaller  grew, 

And  every  time  it  went  out  for  us  two. 

I'm  fearing  to  go  and  return  through  that  door, 

The  candle  is  spent  and  will  burn  nevermore. 

And  you've  gone  away  several  times  in  the  past, 

And  when  you  returned  did  the  thing  ever  last? 

How  clever  we've  been  in  our  conduct— and  why? 

You're  never  annoyed  with  a  wee  baby's  cry, 

You're  never  annoyed  with  a  few  weeks  of  scare 

That  I  shall  be  bringing  a  boisterous  heir. 

How  cunning  I  am!    You  should  like  me  for  that, 

I've  never  been  careless  and  ugly  and  fat. 

You  show  me  with  pride,  and  I  oft  play  the  part 

A  woman  who's  clever  can  play  well  by  heart. 

But  that  is  outside;  it  is  different  here. 

You've  always  been  good;  I  don't  loathe  you,  my  dear. 

I  thought  of  the  words  that  the  minister  used 

That  night  when  he  called  and  so  much  us  amused; 

And  yet  of  his  cant  I've  been  thinking  a  lot. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


I  laughed  at  the  time,  but  I've  not  quite  forgot. 

His  words  ran  like  this,  I've  been  saying  them  o'er, 

"In  things  of  the  flesh  you  should  barter  no  more; 

Not  even  by  law  is  such  barter  made  right: 

I  fear  you  are  bodies,  not  souls,  in  God's  sight." 

That  sounds,  does  it  not,  as  if  we  were  both  lost? 

You  never  complained  of  the  price  that  I  cost. 

I've  paid  in  return — have  I  not,  my  dear  sir? — 

I'm  going  to  bed;  but  now  please  don't  infer 

I  hate  you  a  bit,  for  I  don't.    Like  a  ball 

Our  lives  keep  on  rolling  and  rolling,  that's  all. 


H 


HE    WILL    COME 
E  WILL  come,  she  said 


.Deep  in  her  bounding,  girlish  heart,  and  smiled, 

Assurance  on  her  lips; 
And  childhood's  dreaming  fancies  wild 

That  over  blissful  pathways  led— 
He  will  come,  she  said. 

He  will  come,  she  said, 
As  many  daily  tasks  and  years  came  on; 

And  from  her  cherry  lips 
And  cheeks  the  girlish  glow  had  gone; 

And  though  her  glad,  wild  dreams  had  fled — 
He  will  come,  she  said. 

He  will  come,  she  said, 
As  o'er  the  saddened  chords  of  her  pure  heart 

The  hand  of  bitterness 
Oft  now  and  then  a  tune  would  start, 

When  some  old  playmate's  life  was  wed — 
He  will  come,  she  said. 

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He  will  come,  she  said, 
And  sweetly  smiled  with  faith  again  serene 

In  that  one  perfect  love 
Beyond  the  faded  and  the  green 

Of  earth.     Ere  last  they  laid  her  dead, 
He  has  come,  she  said. 


TO  YOU  WHO   COME  AT  EVENING 

1KNOW  you  oft  have  told  me,  dear, 
The  world  is  full  of  hate  and  strife; 
But  I'm  content  with  you  and  life — 
With  you  each  night  beside  me  here. 

You  often  fear  that  I  am  sad, 
Because  some  things  you  think  I  miss; 
I  would  not  lose  a  single  kiss 
For  that  which  makes  some  persons  glad. 

And  when  you  touch  me  with  your  hand, 
And   say  the  words  you  used  to   say, 
Why— all  the  night  is  turned  to  day, 
And  I  forget  the  things  I'd  planned. 

And  often  when  we  here  have  sat, 
And  I  have  said,  "Tell  me  again," 
I've  seen  you  smile  a  bit,  but  then, 
You  see,  we  women  live  on  that. 

We  women  love  that  we  may  live; 
The  heart  is  hungry,  too,  and  I — 
No  matter  if  you  don't  know  why — 
Well,  I'm  content  with  what  you  give. 
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THE    BRIDE 

YOU  tremble,  dear.     See,  I  am  not  afraid, 
And  all  myself  I  give;  my  heart  is  light; 
The  crimson  on  my  cheek  should  flee  in  fright, 
And  yet  does  not;  'tis  there  delayed 
Because  I  have  no  fear.     I  oft  have  prayed, 
With  warming  breath  of  whispers  in  the  night, 
For  this  sweet  hour  with  you,  and  tight 
Have  clasped  my  hands,  as  in  my  thoughts  you  strayed. 
My  lips  I've  saved  for  you  and  all  the  cheer 
That  summer's  dewy  morns   tossed   in  my  heart, 
That  when  at  eve  you're  wearied,  I  might  start 
Some  trifling  little  talk,  which  all  the  fear 
Of  morrows  and  the  day  should  swiftly  part 
From  you,  and  make  you  glad  that  I  am  here. 

THE  ONE  WOMAN 

HOW  could  I  help  but  love  you,  coming  up  a  cool 
and  radiant  fountain  in  the  hot  and  dreary  night 

of  life? 
I  swear  the  sins  of  youthful  women  lay  upon  my  hands, 

the  grimy  sweat  of  wearied  men  in  strife, 
Who'd  clothed  my  body  with  garments  fair,  and  the 

agonies  of  children,  too,  condemned  to  toil  that  I 

might  freely  live. 
I  swear  the  cries  of  beaten  slaves  turned  not  my  ear, 

nor  wails  of  stunted  children  that  the  sea  of  want 

doth  give. 
There  was  no  order  in  my  days.     I  slept  and  ate  as 

instinct  called,  and  heeded  every  wanton  passion 

near, 
A  face,  a  form,  a  game  of  chance,  the  gossip  of  the  idle 

wags,  and  lived  to  finish  quickly  earth's  career. 

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And  though  I  shall  regret  what  now  I  here  confess, 

and  cringing  turn  from  this  swift  lash  that  o'er  my 

back  I  send— 
I  swear  that  thing  called  soul  had  not  set  torch  within 

the   bloodstained  walls  where   creaked  my  heart, 

bent  on  low  passion's  end. 
How  could  I  help  but  love  you,  coming  like  a  balmy 

light  into  the  dead  and  moonless  night  of  empty 

years? 
You  spoke,  and  I  saw  the  blood  of  murdered  innocence 

glare  red  upon  my  hands,  and  heard   the  wailing 

sea  of  tears. 
You  touched  my  hand,  and  through  my  restless  life 

stole  scenes  of  quiet  woods  and  dancing  shafts  of 

gold  upon  the  green; 
And  daffodils  and  running  vines,  and  larks'  and  linnets' 

songs,  and  the  softly  sounding  lyre  of  doves  perched 

high  unseen. 
Things  I  had  dreamed  of  in  my  dreaming  childhood 

came   again,   and  solitude   with  you  was   what   I 

longed  for  most; 
Out  of  other  distant  worlds  remembered  visions  sprang 

that  long  ere  earthly  birth  I  knew  'mid  God's  im 
mortal  host. 
And  when  I  kissed  your  lips  this  world  was  born  again, 

and  in  the  still  and  starry  night  I  was  with  you 

and  God; 
And  truth  and  mercy  bloomed  within   my   soul,   and 

kindly  words  bred  fast  upon  my  lips,  and  bliss  came 

where  I  trod. 
And  long  I  lay  upon  the  grassy  earth,  your  hand  in 

mine,  and  listened  to  your  voice  that  showed  the 

better  way; 
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And  your  own  God  I  learned  to  love,  but  loved  you 
more  o'er  all  I  ever  knew,  you  who  were  fated  not 
to  stay. 

If  I  am  aught,  and  tired  men  and  weary  women  know 
my  voice,  and  smile  amid  their  tears,  it  is  for  you; 

And  if  a  song  has  left  my  lips,  some  clear  and  simple 
song  that  comfort  brings  within  some  lonely  heart 
of  rue, 

It  is  not  mine,  but  comes  from  out  the  mellow  shaded 
woods  of  memory  now  mouldering  in  the  faded 
past; 

And  if  the  springtide  and  the  autumn  bring  reborn  the 
songs  of  love,  it  is  because  your  spirit  holds  me 
fast— 

Because  I  pressed  my  lips  to  yours  in  the  secret,  voice 
less  woods,  where  daffodils  and  running  vines  for 
ever  blow; 

And  where  in  tender  dreams  of  waking  hours,  through 
all  the  silent  years,  my  vagrant  footsteps  often 
come  and  go. 


On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


THE   AWAKENING 

FROM  every  'village  and  city  and  house  of  the  fields, 
I  saw  arise  a  vapor,  like  the  star-dust  of  the  night. 
And  each  trembling  shaft  murmured  like  running  water 
as  it  climbed  out  of  the  dark  world.    All  else  was  un 
changed;  it  was  the  world  I  had  known  from  childhood. 

I  also  was  lifted  out  of  the  dark  world,  and  I  felt  that 
I  was  being  carried  through  space,  as  I  had  sometimes 
felt  in  dreams.  High  up  the  sounds  of  the  rising  vapor 
blended,  and  I  heard  the  symphony  of  universal  love 
shifting  over  the  cities  of  the  earth. 

The  music  swayed  backward  and  forward  and  filled  the 
spaces  of}  the  sky  in  diverse  running  streams,  like  the 
currents  of  the  sea.  Half  asleep  I  lay  on  the  breathing 
breast  of  the  music  rising,  ever  rising  out  of  the 
troubled  world  below. 

The  pyramids  may  have  crumbled  ere  I  awoke,  and 
rivers  have  been  born  on  the  bleached  earth  of  dead 
continents.  It  was  no  oblivious  sleep,  but  one  that 
feels  itself  ever  awakening,  like  the  gentle  sleep  aroused 
by  music  in  the  dawn,  or  the  soft  sleep  of  love  that 
feels  the  warmth  of  lips  in  the  twilight. 

When  I  awoke,  I  saw  that  the  vapor  had  descended, 
and  that  the  symphony  of  universal  love  filled  all  the 
cities  of  the  earth.  And  I  saw  a  strange  race  of  people 
— strange  with  beauty.  In  the  streets  men  went  arm  in 
arm.  And  there  was  no  haste,  and  the  world  was  like  a 
garden  fanned  by  perfumed  breezes,  and  the  places 
where  men  worked  were  adorned  like  the  palaces  of 
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old  times,  and  there  was  no  sorrow  anywhere,  and  no 
haste  there  was,  only  sweet  exchange  of  service,  and  none 
cringed,  but  all  walked  erect,  looking  kindly  upon  one 
another.  But  stranger  than  all  else,  I  saw  no  sorrow. 
I  asked,  "What  year  is  it?"  and  I  was  told.  And  one 
said  to  me,  "Thy  face  is  strangely  marked."  And  look 
ing  into  a  glass,  I  saw  that  my  face  had  still  the  lines 
of  sorrow  that  life  had  graven  there  er'e  I  slept,  and 
this  I  told.  But  none  that  stood  round  me  remembered 
sorrow,  save  an  old  man  who  had  had  an  ancient  book 
in  his  youth  wherein  was  written  of  sorrow. 
And  I  saw  that  the  history  of  the  sorrow  of  the  world 
had  faded  and  was  a  thing  buried  in  olden  times,  and 
I  understood  then  that  I  had  been  long  asleep.  But 
now  the  snow  of  death  was  melted  by  love,  and  as  a 
drowsy  swimmer  on  a  sun-kissed  beach,  I  warmed 
myself,  touching  this  one  by  the  hand,  and  that  one 
on  the  lips,  to  assure  myself  that  I  moved  not  among 
the  visions  of  my  brain,  and  that  the  hands  and  lips 
were  warm. 

But  it  was  the  earth — the  earth  of  old  times!  save  that 
the  promise  of  the  human  heart  had  been  fulfilled.  I 
sank  down  and  prayed,  and  I  should  have  wept  and 
moistened  the  ground,  but  I  could  not,  for  tears  had 
faded  forever  from  the  earth. 

YOU   WITH    THE    STILL    SOUL 

MAYBE  you  have  a  still  soul  that  goes  murmurless 
like  the  water  in  the  deep  of  rivers; 

And  perchance  you  wander  silent  amid  the  din  of  the 
world's  grinding  barter  like  one  journeying  in  strange 
lands. 

60 


On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


You,  too,  with  the  still  soul,  have  your  mission,  for 
beneath  the  dashing,  noisy  waves  must  ever  run  the 
silent  waters  that  give  the  tide  its  course. 

WHO    ENTERETH    HERE 
(For   the   Door   of  Your  Dream   House.) 

WHOE'ER   thou    art    that    entereth    here, 
Forget  the  struggling  world 
And  every  trembling  fear. 

Take   from   thy  heart   each   evil   thought, 

And  all  that  selfishness 
Within  thy  life  hath  wrought. 

For  once  inside  this  place  thou'lt  find 

No  barter,  servant's   fear, 
Nor  master's   voice  unkind. 

Here  all  are  kin  of  God  above — 

Thou,  too,  dear  heart;  and  here 
The  rule  of  life  is  love. 


TO    A    SOLITARY 

HOW  often  have  I  unpacked  my  heart  under  the 
stars,  careless  of  the  swift  night  hours,  and  scorn 
ful  of  the  days  and  years  as  they  passed  the  horizon  of 
the  present! 

Why  did  I  not  disembosom  myself  to  one  who  could 
understand,  instead  of  carrying  the  conventional  face 
in  the  sunlight  of  many  days? 
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* * * 

I  lacked  courage,  faith;  and  so  was  kept  from  my  own 
by  cloistering  the  inner  songs  save  from  the  dead  ears 
of  the  silent  night. 

The  fingers  of  the  gods  I  found  cold,  lacking  the 
warmth  of  human  hands,  and  the  voice  of  the  stars  in 
the  night — though  unforgettable — was  still  incomplete 
without  the  music  of  human  whispers. 

In  meditation  I  trod  the  snow-stained  mountains,  where 
the  air  is  chill,  unwarmed  by  human  breath;  and 
though  my  vision  widened,  the  sweet  noises  of  the 
peopled  valley  died  away,  and  the  songs  of  love  with 
ered  on  my  lips. 

I  do  not  counsel  you,  O  solitary!  to  shun  eternally  the 
mountain,  and  the  purer  air,  and  the  broader  vision, 
and  the  prayers  by  the  star-tapers  of  the  night,  and 
the  footsteps  of  God  echoing  on  the  mosaic  of  the 
inner  cathedral. 

I  do  not  counsel  you  to  blind  the  spirit-eyes,  impatient 
to  look  from  the  spires  of  immortality,  or  to  be  ignorant 
of  the  inarticulate  language  of  the  golden  worlds  that 
nightly  sweep  the  brooding  dome,  or  never  to  bathe 
yourself  in  the  strange  solitude  of  the  moon. 

I  do  not  counsel  you  to  quench  the  beacon  on  the 
hilltop  of  your  timeless  self,  or  to  stop  your  ears  to 
strains  of  immortal  music.  These — all  these  the  sweet 
people  of  the  valley  need,  still  prostrate  in  the  church 
of  things. 

Therefore,  O  solitary!  bring  now  and  then  from  the 
mountain  your  vision,  your  music,  and  your  light.  Set 
your  lamp  in  the  darkened  places,  and  sing  in  the 

62 


On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


crowded  world  the  whispered  melodies  of  your  better 
self;  re-echo  with  your  own  feet  the  steps  of  God  heard 
in  the  inner  cathedral,  breathe  the  breath  of  purer  air, 
and  paint  on  the  curtain  of  daily  life  your  visions  of 
the  timeless  hour. 

Though  some  understand  you  not,  others  will  kiss  your 
lips  to  smiles,  and  sit  with  you  in  the  luminous  hour, 
and  you  shall  feel  the  warmth  of  strong  hands,  and  the 
light  that  is  within  you  shall  be  like  that  of  a  wedding 
house. 

And  you,  O  solitary,  shall  touch  your  kin  with  the 
naked  hand,  and  blend  with  the  music  of  the  world  your 
spirit  songs,  and  walk  attended  in  the  quiet  evening 
over  the  paths  warmed  by  human  steps,  knowing  the 
pressure  of  a  woman's  hand  at  dawn — you!  Godlike 
yet  human  still. 


I 


I  SEE  THERE  IS  A  GOOD  DEAL  OF 
GRANDILOQUENCE 

SEE  there  is  a  good  deal  of  grandiloquence  in  my 
book — my  friends  and  foes  have  told  me. 


I  think  it  must  be  true,  for  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
grandiloquence  in  me — and  in  nature  also: 

I  saw  a  sunset  last  evening  that  was  a  gross  imposition 
upon  modesty; 

And  no  artist  would  have  had  the  hardihood  to  paint 
that  western  sea  of  flame  as  it  was  there  painted  on 
the  curtain  of  the  coming  night. 
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THE  NOISE  OP  THE  CITY 

IF  THE  noise  of  the  city  offend  you,  go  afield,  when 
you  may,  with  the  birds  and  the  wild,  free  life  that 
troubles  not; 

The  growing  grain  and  the  placid  sky  have  a  kind  of 
voice;  and  though  you  are  alone,  the  boundlessness  of 
the  universe  is  with  you. 

The  dream  of  imperishable  passions  in  old  history, 
the  love  of  mothers  for  children,  and  the  love  of  chil 
dren,  born  and  unborn,  and  all  love,  swarm  in  the  soft 
air,  speaking  to  the  inner  ear  in  the  still  language. 

Go  afield  with  the  birds  and  the  growing  grain  and 
the  placid  sky,  and  dream  and  forget;  and  you  will  see 
that  you  are  changed  when  you  awake  and  the  gleams 
of  the  city  peep  in  your  twilight  returning. 


AFIELD 

TRILLED  with  dreams  and  songs  and  love,  I  wander 
afield. 


Meditation,  softened  by  the  peaceful  lands  of  grain  and 
the  illimitable  blue  sea  overhead,  draws  my  heart  to 
my  lips  as  one  whose  talent  is  in  song. 

I  yield  to  the  thousand  felicities  of  this  transport,  like  a 
child  led  by  his  father's  hand;  and  no  questions  darken 
this  day  of  my  content. 

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On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


SOMETHING  WILL  RISE  IN  YOU 

/OCCASIONALLY  permit  self-abandonment  to  the 
V^/caprice  of  beauty;  rush  past  the  sentinel  that  keeps 
you  in  the  prisoned  city,  and  live  for  an  hour  in  the 
house  of  the  world,  acquainting  yourself  with  the  still 
people  of  the  air. 

Learn  the  music  of  a  summer  night  by  the  restless 
wave  of  the  sea,  or  surrender  to  the  sunlight  of  an 
open  country  where  the  illimitable  sky  at  last  meets 
to  kiss  the  sweet,  green  earth,  and  stay  till  the  crimson 
shafts  burn  the  western  world; 

And  something  will  rise  in  you  that  is  not  connected 
with  the  tiring  routine  of  your  trade — something 
strange  and  calm. 


THOU    MOTHER 

DO  I  but  dream,  or  do  I  look  on  thee 
Once  more?    'Tis  thou,  my  eyes  do  not  deceive. 
Again  thou  whisperest  through  the  years  to  me, 

I  feel  the  pressure  of  thy  lips  at  eve; 
Again  thy  kindly,  moistened  eyes  I  see, 

And  hear  sweet  counsel  that  I  should  not  grieve, 
Thy  gentle  arms  around  me  tight  as  we 

Rock  slow,  and  I  thy  sweet  caress  receive. 
Yet  oft  I  see  thy  face  with  sorrow  wrung, 

Until  sometime  in  fright  I  scarce  believe 
That  I  still  dream.    The  tales  when  thou  wast  young, 

Thine  own  sweet  hopes,  thy  lips,  and  laughter  free, 
In  some  weird  way  are  strangely  haunting  me. 

Thou  mother  of  my  childhood's  pleasant  days, 
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The  Poems  gf  Max  Ehrmann 


Still  whispering  hope  and  courage  through  the  years, 
In  quiet,  cooling  eve  and  daylight's  rays; 

Art  thou  some  happy  dream  dispelling  fears? 
Or  dost  thou  walk  indeed  along  the  ways, 

And  know  my  joys,  and  all  my  inward  tears 
That  cease  to  flow  when  thou  dost  near  me  seem? 

O  let  me  sleep,  thou  God,  if  I  but  dream! 


O  SWEET  CONTENT! 

O  SWEET  content!  where  is  thy  mild  abode 
Where  I  may  dwell  in  endless  peace? 
Show  me  the  much-sought  road 
And  give  the  lease. 

The   answer   came,   "Then   cease   to   vainly   roam 
In  search  of  me,  for  thou  wilt  find 
My  quiet,  hidden  home    . 
Within  thy  mind." 


WILL  YOU  COME  BACK  TO  ME? 

WILL  you  come  back  to  me, 
My  friend, 

Where  evening's  golden  shafts   still  blend 
Night's  sea — 
Will  you  come  back  to  me? 

I  need  you  more  with  all  the  years 

That  come, 

Each  bringing  its   fast-growing  sum 

Of  fears. 

I  need  you  more  with  years, 

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On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


Some  place  you've   gone,   I  know  not  where. 

I  bend 

My  head  each  stilly  night  and  send 

A  prayer 

To  you  away  somewhere. 

And  should  you  hear  my  voice  at  last, 

Come  quick, 

Soon  will  the  night  be  falling  thick, 

And  past 

Will  be  my  voice  at  last. 

And  once  again  we'll  live  in  dreams 

Of  youth. 

The  tender  thoughts  of  childhood's  truth 

Our  themes 

Again  shall  be  in  dreams. 

Will  you  in  truth  then  come  to  me, 
My  friend, 

Where  evening's  golden  shafts  still  blend 
Night's  sea- 
Will  you  come  back  to  me? 


I  SIT  AND  WAIT 

1SIT  and  wait  upon  my  soul  to-night, 
And  watch  the  changing  sky, 
The  clouds  and  stars  that  fly 
Within  the  silent  moon's  far-reaching  light 
That  glorifies  the  night. 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


Now  would  some  keen,  hard-headed  son  of  trade 

Laugh  loud  at  me,  and  say, 

"Your  soul  is  gone?  which  way? 
And  tell  me  of  what  stuff  a  soul  is  made. 
The  thing's  no  good  in  trade." 

And  proud  philosophers  would  hard  contend 

To  tell  me  all  they  knew 

Of  souls  in  me  and  you; 

Forgetting  where  the  lights   of  heaven  blend 
And  shine,  while  they  contend. 

So  each  one  to  his  wish,  and  as  for  me, 

I  sit  to-night  and  wait 

In  slumb'rous  moonlight  late, 
To  feel  the   freedom  of  the  world  in  me 
Like  waves  of  a  shoreless  sea. 

Far  vanished   earth,  I  journey  with  the  dead 

That  smile  in  bliss  afar 

On  yonder  liquid  star, 
And  on  and  on  to  ruby  worlds  of  red 
From  earthly  vision  fled; 

Where  lonely  faces  I  have  known  on  earth 

Now  smile  in  endless  bliss, 

And  fling  to  me  the  kiss 

Of  love,  'mid  twilight  music  soft  with  mirth 
Remembered  long  ere  birth. 

And  evening  gardens  built  of  pleasant  thought, 

Where  tripping  laughters  greet 

The  timid  bridal  feet 

Of  them   new-wed   to   bliss;   and   sleep  is   naught 
But  love  subdued  and  caught. 

68 


On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


Oh,  wake  me  not!  but  let  me  still  beguile 

Myself  in  this  sweet  sleep, 

As  through  the  world  I  creep 
On  nameless  wings,  and  rest  myself,  and  smih 
Let  me  be  dead  a  while. 


THE    DAWN 

ONE  morn  I  rose  and  looked  upon  the  world. 
"Have  I  been  blind  until  this  hour?"  I  said. 
O'er  every  trembling  leaf  the  sun  had  spread, 
And  was   like   golden  tapestry  unfurled; 
And  as  the  moments   passed  more   light  was   hurled 
Upon    the   drinking   earth   athirst   for   light; 
And  I,  beholding  all  this  wondrous  sight, 
Cried  out  aloud,  "O  God,  I  love  Thy  world!" 
And  since  that  waking,  often   I   drink  deep 
The  joy  of  dawn,  and  peace  abides  with  me; 
And  though  I  know  that  I  again  shall  see 
Dark  fear  with  withered  hand  approach  my  sleep, 
More  sure  am  I  when  lonely  night  shall  flee, 
At  dawn  the  sun  will  bring  good  cheer  to  me. 


Y 


ONE  WILL  PASS  THE  DOOR 

OUR  first  duty  is  to  learn  to  live  in  the  world,  for 
to  this  you  are  born. 


But,  meantime,  make  for  yourself  a  secret  room  in  the 
inner  house  of  consciousness,  where  you  may  rest  from 
the  strain  of  the  world,  and  disentangle  yourself  from 
that  which  is  unworthy  of  your  soul. 
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Into  this  room  let  no  unsympathetic  person  enter,  for 
he  would  laugh  at  you  in  the  temple  of  your  better  self. 

Yet,  in  a  long  time,  perhaps  some  one  who  understands 
will  pass  the  door.  And  who  shall  say  what  your  life 
may  be  from  that  hour! 


COME,  YOU  WHO  ARE  WEARY 


,  you  who  are  weary,  and  sit  in  the  shadow 
my  faith;  and  when  you  are  rested  we  shall 
journey  together,  singing  gleefully  on  the  highway, 
lending  many  a  hand,  yet  passing  ever  on  and  on;  and 
at  nightfall,  tired  and  content,  we  shall  light  the  candles 
in  the  house  of  love,  thank  God  in  cheerful  words,  and 
lie  down  to  peaceful  sleep. 


i 


ON    A    MAY    MORNING 

AM  the  dawn,  the  whisper  of  winds,  the  perfume 
of  morning. 


The  passing  night  fondled  me,  hovering  close  to  me, 
softly,  silently. 

The  breaking  day  builds  the  spirit  temple  of  my  joy. 
I  abandon  myself! 

It  seems  to  me  that  never  before  have  I  walked  with 
the  spirit  as  now,  nor  overcome  space,  time,  and  the 
elements  as  I  overcome  them  now. 

I  would  liquefy  myself  to  mingle  my  substance  with 
the  clouds  and  creep  into  the  crannies  of  the  good- 
tasting  earth. 

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On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


I  caress  the  good-tasting  earth— lie  upon  it  for  hours, 
my  body  at  full  length.  I  converse  with  it;  and  the 
language  is  more  articulate  than  the  language  of  men. 
It  is  my  mother,  and  the  mother  of  my  sisters  and 
brothers,  the  grass  and  the  trees,  and  all  breathing  and 
breathless  living  things— the  great  mother  ever  preg 
nant! 

I  would  comb  her  hair  with  my  fingers,  and  dry  my 
lips  upon  her  cheek,  and  beat  her  with  gentle  blows 
of  affection,  and  press  my  naked  limbs  against  her. 

Insane,  egotistical  rapture!  mirth  inspiring! 

For  a  few  hours  here  in  the  still  morning  I  wash  myself 
clean  of  civilization,  and  purge  myself  of  things  and 
the  accumulated  rubbish  of  time. 

I  push  back  history,  dismiss  interpreters,  and  stand 
erect  before  the  dawn,  looking  the  universe  in  the  face, 
and  asking  my  own  questions. 

To-morrow  I  shall  return  to  the  human  wheels;  but 
now  I  defy  the  world  of  customs  and  laws,  of  sophistry 
and  serfdom;  and  I  yield  myself  childlike  to  the  light 
and  the  air  and  the  sweet-scented  dew. 

A  bird  flies  through  the  sky,  and  I  fly  with  it.  I  am  in 
each  pearl  of  moisture  sparkling  in  the  sun.  I  lie  lazy 
on  the  clouds.  And  I  acknowledge  my  kinship  with 
each  winged  thing. 

I  see  all  as  one,  and  nothing  repels  me,  as  this  new 
day  climbs  noiselessly  out  of  the  valley  of  night. 

Peace  lies  over  the  world  and  over  the  world  of  my 
soul. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


TV7 


NOTHING 
are  you  writing?" 


I  looked  up,  yet  I  saw  no  one.  It  was  near 
the  middle  of  the  night,  the  room  was  nearly  dark, 
save  the  table  over  which  I  leaned  holding  my  pen. 
Was  I  dreaming?  Looking  up  again,  I  saw,  or  thought 
I  saw,  the  figure  of  a  woman  standing  in  the  dim  light. 
Her  hair  lay  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  face  I  had 
seen  somewhere. 

"What  are  you  writing?" 

"A  story  of  perfect  love,"  I  answered. 

"Lay  down  your  pen  and  live  with  me  the  story  you 
are  writing,"  she  said. 

"I  am  ready!"  I  cried,  and  arising,  I  started  toward 
her;  but  there  was  nothing  there. 


A  CHILD 

O  OMEWHERE  a  child  is  crying  to  me— somewhere 

0  in  the  future  crying  to  me,  calling  me  by  name,  by 
words  of  endearment. 

1  almost  see  its  face,  somewhat  like  my  own  long  ago. 
I  almost  hold  it  fast  to  me. 

I,  almost  stretching  my  arms  to  take  it  out  of  the  air, 
feel  anew  strange  currents  of  life  passing  in  and  out 
of  me. 

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On  the  Shores  §f  the  Sky 


The  man  in  me  arises,  and  I  am  lifted  up  by  the  thought 
that  I  shall  not  die,  but  live  again  in  these  hands  that 
stroke  my  cheek,  and  in  these  lips  that  mingle  their 
moisture  with  mine. 

I  should  be  silent,  but  cannot — will  not,  and  am  un 
ashamed. 

Thus,  sitting  in  the  gloaming,  I  yield  to  this  weird 
vision  of  a  child — my  child  crying  to  me;  out  of  the 
fathoms  of  things  unformed  calling  me  to  take  it  to 
myself. 

Often  have  I  rocked  you  in  the  night,  child  of  my 
dream,  when  the  stars  peeped  at  us  and  the  earth  slept. 

Often  have  I  walked  with  you,  holding  you  by  the  hand. 

And  often  have  you  looked  into  my  face,  dimming  my 
mind;  and  the  philosophies  of  ages  vanished,  and  the 
wonders  of  science  faded,  and  there  was  no  meaning  in 
the  world  but  love  of  you. 

Thus  sitting  in  the  gloaming,  I  beckon  you  to  come 
to  me,  I  talk  to  you,  and  fondle  you,  child  who  is  call 
ing  me. 


ONCE  I  LIVED  ON  A  HIGH  MOUNTAIN 

ONCE  I  lived  on  a  high  mountain,  dead  to  the 
distant  world  of  men,  dead  to  possession  of  any 
thing,  dead  to  myself  of  flesh.  The  quiet  sun  attend 
ing  me  by  day,  made  of  earth  a  dome  of  beaten 
gold,  I  wandering  always  on  the  top,  and  looking 
downward  on  the  world.  By  night  the  moon  walked 
with  me,  my  brother  of  the  sky,  saying  things 
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The  Poems£f  Max  Ehrmann 


in  a  voiceless  voice,  which  I  understood.  The  stars 
knew  me  in  the  night  and  smiled,  children  of  the  house 
of  God  playing  on  the  mead  of  heaven,  calling  often 
to  each  other.  Not  once  saw  I  God  face  to  face,  yet 
heard  Him  when  I  stopped  my  ears,  whispering  as  does 
the  sea  on  the  bosom  of  the  night.  I  feared  to  close 
my  eyes,  banishing  the  world,  and  call  Him  to  show 
His  face,  lest  I  should  die.  Yet  always  by  day  and 
night  I  saw  His  children  of  the  mead  looking  down 
on  me,  I  looking  downward  on  the  world.  Speaking 
with  no  one,  human  speech  I  nigh  forgot — the  sighing 
seas  of  God  breathing  in  my  breast.  All  the  music  of 
forgotten  worlds  echoed  in  my  brain;  and  the  unborn 
children  sang,  and  the  dead  children  sang.  But  naught 
could  I  see  save  the  dome  of  beaten  gold,  and  the 
playing  babes  of  the  sky,  and  the  sun  and  the  moon. 
And  none  would  come  to  touch  me,  and  take  me  by 
the  human  hand,  and  press  me  tight  in  arms  that  held 
the  warmth  of  earth  as  I.  I  saw  naught  but  eternal 
things,  heard  naught  but  eternal  speech;  I  alone  was 
ephemeral  amid  these  timeless  beings.  The  purity  of 
the  mountain  top  froze  the  crimson  rivers  of  my  flesh; 
and  since  I  was  to  die,  I  longed  for  mortal  kin.  The 
kindly  human  voice,  with  the  sin  of  the  crowded  world, 
and  duty,  and  toil,  and  laughter — all  called  for  me  to 
come;  and  rushing  down  from  the  mountain  top,  I 
sought  again  the  world  of  women  and  men,  the  warm 
water  of  human  things  touching  me  on  every  side.  In 
lane  and  mart  I  walked  with  men;  drank  from  the 
cup  of  love  till  I  was  subdued  with  joy,  yielding  child 
like  to  the  manner  of  the  world.  Now  the  mountain 
top  is  far  away;  but  the  love  of  dying  things  is  mine, 
for  out  of  death  our  love  is  made;  and  I  am  with 
my  kin. 

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In  the  Gloaming  and  the  Night 


THE  LUMINOUS  WORLDS  AND  THE  LOVE  OF 
THE  NIGHT 

LONG  did  I  believe  myself  evil  because  I  did  not 
worship  according  to  the  fashion. 

Long  did  I  walk  in  the  night  and  look  at  the  stars, 
questioning  my  soul,  and  endeavoring  to  deliver  myself 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  brass  images  of  the  earth. 

Now  and  then  a  luminous  world  rent  the  sky  and  burst 
into  invisible  dust;  and  then  again  the  still  face  of  the 
night  looked  down  upon  me,  a  single  sand  grain  on 
one  of  the  beaches  of  a  million  seas. 

And  after  a  while  a  great  calm  came  upon  me,  and 
though  I  know  not  why,  I  stretched  forth  my  arms, 
as  if  to  embrace  one  I  loved,  and  something  within 
me  said,  "It  is  enough." 

And  the  brass  images  of  the  earth  fell  from  me,  and  I 
was  made  free  as  the  wind  is  free,  and  fearless  as  the 
wind  is  fearless — out  of  the  voice  of  the  luminous 
worlds  and  the  love  of  the  night. 

But  thereafter  the  children  of  the  brass  images  shook 
their  heads,  for  they  still  worshiped  the  idols  of  old 
times. 

And  when  I  uttered  the  arguments  of  the  voice  of  the 
luminous  worlds  and  the  love  of  the  night,  they  under 
stood  them  not. 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


Better  should  I  have  known,  for  the  things  that  are 
inarticulate  cannot  be  made  articulate,  and  there  is  no 
language  of  the  voice  of  the  luminous  worlds  and  the 
love  of  the  night. 

REVELATION 


ONCE,  after  long  weeks  in  the  dust  and  heat   of 
the  city,  in  the  noisy  strife  of  the  crowded  world, 
covered  daily  with  the  grime  of  toil — 

Once,  I  say,  I  stood  in  the  still  night  upon  the  shore 
of  a  lake;  and  for  a  long  time  I  watched  the  lurid  west. 
And  with  my  own  eyes  I  saw  God  painting  upon  the 
sky-curtain  of  the  softening  dark; 

And,  after  a  while,  the  moon  and  her  brood  of  stars 
wandered  through  the  night; 

And  I  said  to  myself  I  need  no  bibles  of  old  revelation; 
this  is  revelation;  out  of  this  beauty  is  my  faith  born. 

II 

Now  that  night  is  passed,  and  I  again  hear  the  noise 
and  feel  the  grime  of  the  crowded  world; 

But  now  I  am  more  patient  and  longer  suffering,  for  I 
know  that  nightly  God  is  painting  His  revelation  on 
the  sky-curtain  over  the  lake  where  I  stood. 

And  over  every  lake,  and  over  the  crest  of  every  hill, 
and  over  the  green  level  of  every  open  field,  and  if  we 
could  but  see,  over  the  sky-obscuring  houses  of  every 
city— is  God  painting  His  revelation. 

78 


In  the  Gloaming  and  the  Night 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  WORLD 

are  going  away"  she  said  pensively.  "I 
shall  miss  you,  for  you  have  come  so  often." 
Outside  it  was  dark  and  winter,  the  wind  howled  about 
the  house,  scattering  the  snow  off  roof  and  knoll  over 
the  desolate  frozen  streets;  the  tall,  stark  trees  creaked 
against  the  bitter  blasts — outside  it  was  dark  and  winter. 
"I  go  to-night,"  said  a  voice  dead  with  resignation. 

"We  have  known  each  other  so  long  that  I  cannot 
think  how  it  will  be  when  you  are  gone.  Why  don't 
you  stay?  You  have  everything  here,  friends  and  home. 
What  else  do  you  want?  Can  the  world  out  there  give 
you  more?" 

The  wind  blew,  the  night  grew  darker,  the  windows 
rattled  in  the  casements.  "I  go  to-night,"  the  dead 
voice  said. 

"I  cannot  understand.  Were  our  many  meetings  only 
a  summer's  idyl,  only  a  little  page  in  your  life's 
romance?  You  remember  we  walked  in  the  woods 
when  the  trees  were  green,  the  grass  soft,  and  the  sky 
a  dome  of  shining  sapphire.  Were  we  not  happy?  You 
often  told  me  so.  It  will  be  summer  again  like  that. 
Oh,  stay!  Hear  the  moan  of  the  wind;  and  the  world 
is  cold  outside.  Oh,  stay!" 

The  door  opened,  the  wind  howled,  the  trees  creaked, 
the  night  was  darker,  and  the  dead  voice  only  said, 
"I  go  to-night." 

Into  the  dark,  with  outstretched  arms,  she  cried, 
"Oh,  stay!  I  cannot  understand!  I  cannot  understand!" 

And  the  night  wind  moaned,  "Cannot— cannot  under 
stand!" 

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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


IN    THE    NIGHT'S    MYSTERIOUS    STILLNESS 

HAVE  you  ever  walked  into  the  still,  still  night, 
and  sat  where  you  could  see  the  lights  dying  one 
by  one  in  the  distant  city — 

Sat  until  the  stars  sang  to  rest  the  weariness  of  the 
world  in  you — until  you  lost  yourself  in  dreams  on  the 
soft  bosom  of  the  night, 

And  felt  again  the  peace  of  early  youth  welling  up  in 
you  like  a  fountain  of  sweet  waters — until  like  a  child 
in  the  father's  arms,  you  felt  unafraid, 

And  withered  memories  bloomed  again  in  that  inner 
garden,  and  little  things  were  forgot  in  the  vast  stillness 
of  the  glorious  growing  night, 

And  the  same  old  ships  of  gold  that  sailed  over  the 
Pharaohs  sailed  over  you  in  the  same  old  sea  of  dark, 

And  epochs  and  wars  and  the  myriad  passions  and 
loves  of  the  myriad  years  faded  in  the  infinite  peace  of 
the  still,  still  night? 


I   GO   INSIDE   AND   CLOSE   THE   DOOR 

I  GO  inside  and  close  the  door;  the  world  has  beaten 
me,  and  the  love  has  passed  out  of  me.     I  lock  the 
door,  and  sit  thinking  of  the  still  woods  where  I  mused 
in  old  times,  and  of  the  friends  and  the  days  that  are 
gone. 

I  sit  thinking  of  gentle  men  and  women  who  prowl 
not  about  the  haunts  of  trade,  thinking  of  nights  of  rest 

80 


In  tfieGloaming  and  theNight 


and  peace,  so  that  the  love  which  has  passed  out  of  me 
may  return,  and  the  trembling  nerves  may  grow  calm, 
and  the  world  grow  sweet  again. 
Therefore  I  go  inside  and  close  the  door. 


A  FEW  HOURS  AGO 

FEW  hours  ago,  hot  and  tired,  I  was  surrounded 
by  the  jargon  of  business,  myself  a  part  of  it. 

Now,  somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  am 
sitting  by  an  open  window. 

Everything  is  still,  and  the  soft  night  air  is  cool. 

The  sky  seems  very  near,  and  the  stars  lie  over  the 
heavens  like  fields  of  daisies  stretching  on  and  on. 

The  moon  is  passing  in  and  out  of  the  clouds,  making 
a  shadow-checkered  day  of  the  night,  and  breaking  the 
sky  with  shafts  of  gold. 

All  silent,  the  universe  is  doing  its  work — -beautiful, 
mysterious,  religious! 

What  was  all  the  jargon  about  a  few  hours  ago? 


I  LOOKED  OUT  AT  THE  NIGHT 

FOR  a  little  while  I  looked  out  at  the  night,  my  eyes 
wandering  from  star  to  star;  and  I  thought  how 
small   are  all   our  cares,  and  how  useless   our  daily 
pother! 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


As  I  sat  dreaming,  thinking,  there  arose  grimly  before 
me  the  stern  face  of  duty,  eyeing  me  like  some  monster 
from  the  pit  of  a  nether  world. 

And  for  a  while  there  was  this  conflict  within  me,  the 
still,  sweet  face  of  the  night  and  the  stern  face  of  duty— 
the  vision  and  the  world. 

I  would  abandon  myself  to  the  still,  sweet  face;  it  in 
vites  and  calms  me,  like  the  great  quiet  that  follows 
the  passion  storms  of  love. 

But  to-morrow  the  wheels  will  grind  again,  and  the 
monster  will  sit  in  the  high  place,  lashing  the  back 
of  the  world. 

O  that  we  had  not  made  slaves  of  ourselves,  multiply 
ing  our  homage  to  custom! 

0  that  we  had  the  virtue  to  be  less  civilized!  the  power 
to  abolish  the  law — save  the  law  of  the  soul,  to  be 
kind  and  honest  and  live  plainly! 

1  look  again  at  the  still,  sweet  face  of  the  night,  as  if 
to  say  adieu;  yet  I  linger  and  look  again  and  again, 
loath  to  go,  as  a  man  parting  at  evening  from  the 
woman  he  loves. 


H 


O  LONELY  WORKERS! 

IDE  it  as  men  will,  even  from  themselves,  behind 
the  efforts  of  every  man  is  the  vision  of  a  woman; 


It  looms  across  the  lonely  way,  and  on  the  background 
of  every  evening's  twilight, 

82 


In  #zeGloaming  and  the  Night 


When  the  day's  work  is  done  and  the  worker's  heart 
creeps  to  his  lips  and  whispers  for  sweet  companionship 
in  the  silent  hours. 

O  lonely  workers  of  the  world,  wandering,  plodding, 
and  ever  wandering,  may  the  kindly  peace  of  this 
midsummer  night  woo  you  also! 


SCORN  NOT  THE  INNER  SONG 

WHAT  dreams  of  golden  lights  are  these 
That  steal  upon  the  placid  leas 
And  through  your  heart 
Where  passions  dart 
At  day? 

What  mystic  murmurs  these  you  hear 
That  come  and  ever  more  come  near 
In  softest  gloom 
Of  twilight's  bloom 
At  eve? 

Are  these  a  premonition  rare 
Of  what  the  other  life  so  fair 
Shall  be  at  last 
When  this  is  past 
And  gone? 

Scorn  not,  therefore,  the  inner  song 
The  soul  sings  for  itself  along 
The  hastening  years 
Of  many  tears 
At  eve. 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 

* * * 


Nor  scorn  the  peaceful  whispers  high 
That  steal  across  the  evening  sky 
And  part  your  soul 
From  all  the  dole 
Of  day. 

AT    NIGHTFALL 

THOUGH  I  know  I  shall  sometime  no  more  open 
my  eyes  to  the  night  or  the  day, 

I  am  one  who  looks  at  the  stars  when  unchained  from 
the  work-bench  at  nightfall. 

They  are  a  sign  that  I  am  not  ephemeral,  nor  you,  nor 
you,  whoever  you  are. 

The  dawn  comes  and  the  dark  and  the  sign  sparkling 
in  the  brooding  night   forever   and  forever. 


I 


I  GO  OUT  INTO  THE  NIGHT 

GO  out  into  the  night  and  stretch  forth  my  arms,  as 
if  to  embrace  one  I  love. 

I  walk  along  streets  which  I  have  never  before  trodden, 
thinking  I  shall  meet  some  one  who  is  looking  for  me. 

The  solace  of  the  stars  is  sweet,  and  the  stillness  has 
a  voice  I  understand. 

It  seems  to  say,  "Patience,  work,  gentleness,"  and  I 
walk  on,  still  thinking  I  shall  meet  some  one  who  is 
looking  for  me. 

The  light  in  each  house  tells  its  little  story  of  rewards. 

Weary,  surfeited  with  dreams,  and  solitary,  I  fall  asleep 
at  last,  still  thinking  some  one  is  looking  for  me. 

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In  the  Gloaming  and  the  Night 


ERE  YOU  LIE  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

RE  you  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  night,  sit  still 
while,  and  nurse  again  to  life  your  gentler  self. 
Forget  the  restless,  noisy  spirit  of  the  day,  and  en 
courage  to  speech  the  soft  voices  within  you  that 
timidly  whisper  of  the  peace  of  the  great,  still  night; 
and  occasionally  look  out  at  the  quiet  stars.  The  night 
will  soothe  you  like  a  tender  mother,  folding  you 
against  her  soft  bosom,  and  hiding  you  from  the  harm 
of  the  world.  Though  despised  and  rejected  by  men 
in  the  light  of  day,  the  night  will  not  reject  you;  and 
in  the  still  of  her  soft  shadows  you  are  free.  After 
the  day's  struggle,  there  is  no  freedom  like  unfettered 
thoughts,  no  sound  like  the  music  of  silence.  And 
though  behind  you  lies  a  road  of  dust  and  heat,  and 
before  you  the  fear  of  untried  paths,  in  this  brief  hour 
you  are  master  of  all  highways,  and  the  universe  nestles 
in  your  soul.  Therefore,  in  the  night,  sit  still  a  while 
and  dream  awake,  ere  you  lie  down  to  sleep. 

GOOD   NIGHT 

OOD   night,  thou   sweet,  old  world,  good  night; 

Enfold  me  in   the   gentle  light 
Of  other  days,  when  gleams 
Of  dewy  meadows  held  my  dreams; 
And  quiet  walks,  as  day  sank  low, 
Dispelled  each  touch  of  woe. 
Let  me  forget  these  joys  be  gone, 
But  feel  them  coming  on 
From   out  the   past,   with   laughter's   cries 
And  dream-enamored  skies 
Of  old.     One  hand  let  me  hold  tight. 
Good  night,  thou  sweet,  old  world,  good  night. 
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AMERICA 

LINCOLN,  rise  up  from  out  thy  tomb  to-day, 
Thou  lover  of  the  lives  of  common  men, 
America  hath  work  for  thee  again. 
Here  women  want  in  sight  of  wealth's  display, 
Man  grinds  his  brother   down  and  holds  a  sway 
As  in  the  times  of  bloody  lash  and   den, 
Save  now  the  flesh  is  white,  not  black  as  then. 
In  toiling  holes  young  girls  grow  old,  decay. 
Though  thou  art  dead,  could  but  thy  soul  return 
In  one  who  loved  his  fellow-men  as  thou; 
Instead  of  greed  that  we  might  justice  learn, 
Love  character  in  place  of  gold  as  now, 
Write  far  across  our  native  land's  sweet  soil, 
"Here  none  shall  live  upon  another's  toil!" 


o 


LAMENTATIONS 

THAT  I  could  sing  a  song  that  would  soften  the 
heart  of  the  world! 


0  that  I  had  the  art  to  put  emotion  into  words,  and 
make  the  pages  of  my  book  a  living  thing! 

Impatient  I  grow  at  the  lethargy  of  words.  I  would 
beat  them,  prick  them  with  spears,  whip  them  with 
iron  whips,  to  make  them  cry  out  the  passion  of  my 
soul! 

1  would  let  out  all  the  penned-up  tumult  that  tortures 
me  within. 

I  would  deliver  the  world  from  the  gods  of  stone  and 
the  gods  of  gold;  I  would  deliver  the  world  from  the 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


dead  gods  of  old  superstition,  more  cruel  than  prisons, 
and  blind — a  thousand  years  blind!  I  would  open  the 
doors  and  uncivilize  mankind. 

I  would  counsel  that  most  things  called  learning  be 
unlearned,  and  that  most  traditions  be  forgotten.  I 
would  proclaim  the  new  wisdom — older  than  the  old — 
which  in  the  process  of  civilizing  ourselves  we  have 
forgotten. 

Ten  thousand  years  before  great  cities  stood  on  this 
continent,  brown  men  sat  peacefully  together  with 
women  and  children,  and  looked  at  the  stars  at  night 
and  wondered  at  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  trees,  and 
sang  love  songs  to  the  great  God,  and  believed! 

I  would  abolish  the  universal  mad-house  called  large 
cities,  turning  the  giddy  inmates  into  green  fields  by 
running  waters,  teaching  them  lessons  in  stillness  and 
placidity. 

Nature's  laws  would  I  make  the  rules  of  virtue.  Per 
version  and  unkindness  only  would  I  call  sin. 

0  that  I  could  sing  a  song  that  would  soften  the  heart 
of   the   world,   that   brother   would   not   stand   armed 
against  brother,  and  sister  against  sister! 

For  I  myself  am  weary  of  battle,  and  the  tenderness  I 
stifle  in  me  may  not  come  to  life  again. 

1  would  have  all  men  rich  in  spirit  and  comfortable  in 
body,  for  I  despise  poverty. 

I  would  make  love  free  among  men  and  women,  with 
out  barter  in  houses  and  lands,  that  no  man  should 

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The  Book  §f  Rebellion 


buy  what  he  could  not  win,  and  no  woman  should  sell 
herself — one  man  for  one  woman,  distinguishing  love 
from  lust.  It  is  the  same  whether  a  woman  sell  herself 
in  or  out  of  the  law;  or  whether  a  man  buy  a  woman 
in  or  out  of  the  law. 

I  would  awaken  the  sleepers  to  the  glory  of  the  world, 
the  harps  that  play  in  every  wind-swept  forest,  the 
living  colors  of  every  nightfall's  western  sky,  the 
sapphire  dome  of  the  days  of  summer,  and  the  still 
stars  creeping  through  the  ebony  of  night. 

Never  in  the  wild  witchery  of  dream  have  I  seen  a 
world  comparable  in  beauty  to  this: 

The  red  gold  of  the  west  at  twilight  often  with 
beauty  pains  my  heart,  speaking  a  language  like  the 
lure  of  far-reaching  sea  waves,  or  the  call  of  sweet- 
singing  birds  at  dawn  on  inland  meads. 

What  more  revelation  does  the  world  demand?  Here 
is  revelation  upon  revelation! 

The  book  of  day  and  the  book  of  night  burst  with 
wonder,  testifying  that  there  is  more  in  the  world  than 
we,  and  that  we  shall  yet  be  other  than  we  are. 

O  that  I  could  sing  a  song  that  would  soften  the  heart 
of  the  world! 

But  I  cannot;  and  my  wild  cries  are  a  picture  that  is 
faded,  a  harp  with  loosened  chords,  a  reed  that  is 
broken.  The  fires  of  my  soul  turn  to  ashes  upon  the 
page. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


THE  GREATER  HEROISM 

WORK   as   if  thy   task  were   made  for   thee; 
Be  strong  as  if  thou  hadst  courage, 
And  charitable   as   if  thou   hadst   been   rewarded; 
Remain  poor  if  riches  are  dishonorable, 
And   carry   poverty  with  the   dignity  of  virtue. 
When   others   dine   sumptuously,   eat   thy   crust; 
Let  love  be  thy  guide  and  justice  thy  God — 
Not  for  thyself  alone,  but  for  all  men. 
Pursuing   these   things   thou   wilt   be   misjudged 
And,  in  the  gloaming  of  thy  days,  forgotten; 
Then,  uncomplaining,   lie  thou  down  at  even, 
Cheered  by  the  love  in  thy  heart, 
And  by  the  full-grown  soul  of  thy  charity; 
Then  hast  thou  won  the  heroic  battle, 
Yet  not  stained  the  sweet  earth  with  blood; 
But  in  the  garden  of  love  and  sacrifice, 
Hast   thou   planted   serenely   growing  flowers, 
That  shall  still  blow  when  thou  dost  slumber 
In  the  shadow-land  of  dreamless  sleep. 


i 


I  WENT  INTO  A  MAGNIFICENT  CHURCH 

WENT  into  a  magnificent  church  in  a  great  city, 
and  I  heard  the  minister  tell  the  people  about  Christ. 


And  the  longer  I  listened  the  more  I  wondered  why 
the  people  did  not  silence  him. 

For,  as  I  looked  about  me,  I  saw  them  that  had  crucified 
Christ,  and  them  that  had  defamed  Him  and  turned 
Him  out. 

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And  when  I  left  the  church,  I  went  without  the  city 
to  a  wood;  and  I  sat  for  a  long  time,  thinking  of  the 
sweet-souled  Christs  that  had  yet  to  die  that  love  might 
some  day  flourish  on  the  earth. 

And  I  remembered  how  dearly  liberty  had  been  bought 
from  the  self-righteous  masters  of  each  age,  who  wor 
shiped  according  to  the  fashion;  and  my  thoughts  were 
somehow  heavy  with  the  sorrow  of  the  world. 

And  there  in  the  whispering  wood,  where  every  leaf 
was  a  tongue  softly  humming  the  songs  of  summer, 
the  beauty  of  the  world  soon  lifted  me  out  of  the 
things  of  the  present,  like  a  melody  remembered  out 
of  childhood;  and  there  I,  too,  silently  within,  prayed 
that  I  might  at  least  once  in  my  life  boldly  strike  the 
iron  harpstrings  of  the  heroic. 

And  soon  darkness  came  on,  and  the  lights  of  the 
city  looked  out  into  the  night;  and  on  my  way  back, 
as  I  went  by  the  magnificent  church,  it  was  silent  and 
dark;  yet  I  somehow  fancied  that  I  could  still  hear  the 
minister  telling  the  people  about  Christ. 

And  as  I  turned  away  from  the  great  stone  arches  of 
the  magnificent  church,  now  sullenly  grand  in  the 
mystic  glimmer  of  the  night,  I  remembered  that  the 
Son  of  Man  wandered  barefoot  over  the  Judean  hills, 
and  at  night  had  not  where  to  lay  His  head. 


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I  JOURNEYED   FROM  UNIVERSITY  TO 
UNIVERSITY 

{JOURNEYED  from  university  to  university,  and  I 
saw  everywhere  the  past  rebuilt  before  the  eyes  of 
young  men  and  young  women — Egypt,  Greece,  Rome; 
language,   architecture,   laws — saw   the   earth  and   sky 
explained,  and  the  habits  of  mind  and  the  habits  of 
body- 
Everywhere  chairs  of  this  and  that,  largely  endowed. 
But  nowhere  saw  I  a  chair  of  the  human  heart; 

Nowhere  a  sweet  breath  to  cool  the  heat  of  that  human 
slaughter  called  traffic. 


A    CERTAIN    RICH    MAN'S   DREAM 

HE  DREAMED  his  gardens  grand  he  trod 
Till  morn.    An  angel  fair  from  God 
He  saw  nearby  the  gate 
He  asked  to  be  his  mate. 

He  told  of  all  who  lived  by  toil 
In  houses  his,  on  bounteous  soil, 
And  that  in  trade  he  led; 
And  asking  then  he  said: 

"I've  gained  so  much  of  earth,  shall  I 
Not  merit  heaven  when  I  die?" 
"Not  so,"  the  angel  quoth, 
"No  man  can  merit  both." 

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TO   THE  MASTERS   OF  MEN 

THEY  that  toil— 
What  have  they  done  that  they  should  beg 
To  work  and  run  by  your  command? 
I  cannot  understand. 

They  that  toil- 
Why  do  they  fear  some  heartless  ill 
When  you  draw  near  their  slavish  life, 
Bound  to  unending  strife? 

They  that  toil— 

Some  day  they'll  know  this  earth  is  for 
Them  too,  and  lo!  who  shall  withstand 
Their  loud  and  fierce  command? 

They  that  toil— 

They  slumber  low;  but  they  shall  wake 
And  they  shall  know  their  mighty  power 
In  that  strange  reckoning  hour. 

They  that  toil- 
God  made  them,  too,  with  love  of  life 
No  less  than  you — in  breaking  storms 
They'll  come  in  myriad  swarms. 

Therefore,  O 

Ye  masters  all!  ere  whirlwinds  rise 
And  temples  fall,  and  daylight  wane, 
On  earth  let  justice  reign! 


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T 


THOU  THAT  ART  IDLE  BORN 

'HOU  that  art  idle  born— knowest  thou  the  weari 
ness  of  toil 

When  the  flesh  refuses  and  cries  "no  farther," 
And  the  soul  believes  no  longer  in  God, 
And  the  night  and  the  day  are  hateful; 
When  fear  of  want  knocks  ever  at  the  door, 
And  evil  dreams  harass  thy  midnight  sleep? 


There  are  none  such,  sayest  thou, 
O  beautiful  one  that  art  idle  born? 
They  are  in  thy  house,  in  the  street,  everywhere. 
They  adore  thee,  thy  beauty,  thy  imperious  manner, 
Thy  placid  eyes,  and  thy  careless  self-assurance, 
Thy  soft  white  flesh— 
Thou— thou  that  art  idle  born! 

What  great  virtue  is  thine 

That  God  has  so  elevated  thee 

That  men  and  women  and  children  serve  thee, 

Yet  thou  servest  not  at  all? 

And  what  great  wrong  have  they  done 

Who  serve  always  yet  are  never  served? 

Does  God  not  love  them  also? 

No  bitterness  to  thee  that  art  idle  born- 
Only  be  thou  gentle  and  kind, 
And  touch  with  thy  soft  hand  the  leaden  brow, 
Grown  ill  and  old  in  service; 
And  with  thy  beautiful  face  and  thy  body, 
And  the  things  that  cover  thy  beautiful  body, 
Give  thou  no  offense. 

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Soon  the  shadows  gather 

And  creep  over  the  garden  of  thy  soul, 

And  it  grows  still  with  thee, 

Thy  memories  fading  like  an  evening's  twilight, 

And  thou  sleepest  in  thy  last  chamber, 

And  the  vain  flesh  is  humble — 

Thou — thou  that  art  idle  born! 


THE   ENEMY 

KR  a  long  time  one  who  had  seen  the  spirit  told  the 
:ople  about  the  love  of  God,  inspired  hope  in  their 
tired  souls,  and  taught  them  the  things  that  we  call  the 
things  of  the  spirit. 

His  daily  bread  he  earned  by  whatever  there  was  for 
his  hands  to  do;  for  the  people,  though  they  took  the 
product  of  his  soul,  yet  they  gave  him  naught  therefor 
of  material  things. 

And  it  happened,  in  the  valley  where  the  people  lived, 
that  a  great  storm  swept  over  the  fields,  destroying  the 
grain;  and  they  that  had  toiled  had  nothing  for  their 
labors;  and  the  fields  stood  barren  like  a  desert,  and 
hunger  and  anguish  spread  over  the  valley. 

And  some  of  them  cried  out,  "Where  was  God  when  the 
storm  raged?'*  And  others  said  sullenly,  "There  is  no 
God!"  And  still  others  were  silent.  The  most  violent 
said,  "Let  us  punish  him  who  has  deceived  us,  teaching 
us  all  these  years  of  the  love  of  God." 

And  straight  they  went  to  the  house  of  him  who  had 
seen  the  spirit,  and  in  anger  questioned  him;  but  he 
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made  no  answer,  for  sorrow  for  the  people  was  heavy 
upon  his  heart. 

And  they  took  him  out  of  his  house,  and  led  him  to 
a  hill,  and  slew  him,  he  who  had  taught  them  the  love 
of  God.  And  there  was  rejoicing  in  the  valley  that  the 
people  should  be  no  more  deceived. 

SUNDAY  NIGHT 

BACK  to  the  world  to-morrow  morn, 
Back  to  the  white-heat  world, 
To  grinding  barter,  sweat  and  swirl, 
Back  to  the  lips  with  anger  curled. 

I'd  linger  here  in  the  still,  still  night, 
With  stars  in  the  wondrous  sky, 

And  gentle  words,  and  slowing  steps 
Of  worshipers  going  by. 

Does  life  demand  so  much  of  food, 

Of  costly  raiment  rare, 
That  but  an  hour  may  be  plucked 

From  all  the  days  of  care? 

The  world  is  sold  to  the  mammon  god; 

The  many  serve  the  few, 
And  whips  crack  loud  o'er  myriad  heads 

Each  hour  to  starve  or  do. 

Back  to  the  world  to-morrow  morn, 

Back  to  the  white-heat  world, 
To  grinding  barter,  sweat  and  swirl, 

Back  to  the  lips  with  anger  curled. 


The  Book  §f  Rebellion 


DESIRE 

I  SAID  to  my  desire,  "What  wilt  thou  have?    Wilt 
thou  have  gold  and  all  the  things  that  can  be  bought 
therewith,  houses,  gardens  with  great  green  walls,  and 
the  beauties  of  art?" 

My  desire  made  no  reply. 

"Shall  I  go  with  thee  on  a  long  journey— to  the  far 
seas  of  Africa,  or  to  the  warm  sunshine  of  Italy,  or  to 
the  cold  north  and  flit  with  thee  over  the  crystal 
snows?" 

My  desire  made  no  reply. 

"Ah,  fame — wouldst  thou  have  fame — the  crook  of  every 
knee,  the  nod  of  every  head,  the  loud  acclaim  of  thee 
everywhere?" 

Yet  made  my  desire  no  answer. 

"Wouldst  thou  have  love,"  said  I  at  last,  "a  woman  to 
hold  thee  as  a  god,  to  look  upon  thee  with  spiritual 
lust,  to  drain  with  thee  the  cup  of  heaven  and  the  cup 
of  earth,  to  kiss  thee  ere  thou  slumberest,  and  to  wake 
thee  with  her  lips  at  dawn?" 

My  desire  said,  "I  desire  nothing,  and  cannot  have  it, 
therefore  am  I  miserable." 


HIS   LAST   TOAST 

ET  saints  declare  I  shall  not  dare 

Or  burn  in  the  pits  of  hell. 
Let  loud  men  scorn  and  women  mourn 

Whene'er  my  tale  they  tell; 
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I  cannot  stay  in  the  deadened  way 
Of  narrow,  hide-bound  creeds; 

I'll   win   the   smile    that   shall    beguile 
My  heart  where'er  it  leads. 

Away  with  tears  and  shrinking  fears 

That  breed  from  the  gossip's  tongue. 
I'll  live  to-day  in  my  own  way, 

Though  night  shall  see  me  hung, 
And  my  good  name  be  dragged  to  shame 

And  damned  for  evermore; 
So  here's  farewell  to  them  that  tell 

My  tale  when  all  is  o'er. 


SUICIDE 

(Chatterton) 

•T'HOU  God,  I'll  speak  with  Thee  as  if  Thou  wert, 

J.  And  say  this  is  the  last  of  earth  I  see. 
The  night  is  deadly  still,  and  wandering  free 
I  soon  shall  send  my  prisoned  soul  alert 
Upon  the  air.     No  more  the  stinging  hurt 
Of  life,  for  quickly  it  is  done  with  me. 
My  flesh  they  soon  will  bear  across  the  lea- 
Poor  livid  flesh,  thou  art  but  made  of  dirt. 

The  hope  to  serve  that  once  did  smite  my  lyre 
In  sweet  ambition's  sunlit  days  has  fled. 
Unsought  my  roses  fade  that  once  were  red, 
And  withered  is  my  garden  as  by  fire. 
O  thou  great  God,  I  have  but  one  desire, 
To  rest  my  tortured  body  with  the  dead! 

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NIGHT  MEDITATIONS 

THIS  beautiful  world,  set  in  a  heaven  of  wonders, 
abounding  in  the  gifts  of  nature,  modeled  in  the 
great  fancy  of  some  spendthrift  god  of  beauty— this 
beautiful  world!  why  is  it  the  theatre  of  man's  cruelty? 

I  looked  at  the  sun  this  evening  as  he  sank  behind  the 
earth,  and  I  wondered  if  all  this  bewildering  beauty 
was  but  to  mock  the  little  soul  of  man;  and  as  T  looked 
again  and  again,  I  felt  a  great  tenderness  steal  apon  me 
like  the  tenderness  of  one  who  loves;  and  as  the- 4ark- .. 
ness  succeeded  the  glaring  red  of  the  -west,  the  care,s 
of  the  world  fled  from  me  and  sank  with  the  departed 
sun  over  the  edge  of  the  world. 

Yet  I  fear  this  tenderness  that  the  twilight  wrought  in 
me,  for  to-morrow  in  the  fierce  fight  for  life  it  may  be 
the  weak  place  in  my  armor— and  I  am  condemned  to 
fight  upon  the  street. 

Yet  not  for  myself  I  cry  aloud,  for  I  am  one  who  some 
times  sits  at  the  feast.  But  I  sit  there  only  in  body 
while  my  soul  refuses  to  come,  awaiting  my  return  by 
the  quiet  of  the  midnight  lamp,  there  to  chide  me  gently 
for  the  wasted  hours. 

But  I  cry  aloud  for  them  in  the  dark  corners  of  the 
earth.  Great  God,  are  we  less  than  the  animals,  that 
the  powerful  among  us  should  gather  and  store  for 
days  that  never  come— more  than  the  need  of  a  life 
of  a  thousand  years?  What  brute  maims  and  kills  his 
kind  for  purposes  like  these? 
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Thou  maker  of  worlds,  soften  this  our  life  ere  we  perish. 
In  the  clatter  of  trade  thy  name  is  not  heard,  and  thy 
candle  is  spent  in  the  darkness  of  selfish  gain.  The 
fires  of  love  are  cold,  and  greed  is  master  of  the  world. 
Long  have  I  prayed  that  thou  soften  the  heart  of  greed. 
Now  I  cry  aloud  that  murdered  justice  rise  like  an  ugly 
vision  at  a  feast. 

Great  God,  is  it  Thy  will  that  the  enemies  of  society 
shall  prosper,*  and  the  virtuous  and  the  useful  be  damned 
to  slavery  and' want? 

Great  God,  art  Thou  dead?  Or  living,  is  Thy  hand 
palsied — Thou  whom  we  thought  so  powerful — Thou 
maker  of  worlds?  Is  justice  harder  to  make  than  a 
world?  I  shall  remember  my  question,  and  Thou  wilt 
answer  me  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

Or  if,  after  all,  this  life  should  be  the  end,  who  will 
requite  the  toilers  in  the  dark  corners  of  the  earth? 
The  faith  that  Thou  wilt  yet  do  justice  stays  the  knife. 

My  brother,  I  think  of  you  toiling  in  the  dark  corners. 
How  sweet  to  you  must  often  seem  the  peace  in  the 
gloom  of  the  grave.  For  in  the  grave  there  is  no  weari 
ness  and  hard  words  have  lost  their  sting. 

Great  God,  if  Thou  hearest  our  cry,  turn  not  away  from 
us,  we  are  Thy  children.  The  journey  is  strange  and 
we  have  lost  our  way.  Some  perish  in  pitfalls,  and 
some  of  gentle  spirit  await  the  call  of  death.  Again, 
again — oh,  soften  the  heart  of  greed,  and  before  the 
rulers  of  men  let  rise  the  pale  faces  in  the  dark  corners 
of  want! 

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THE  FOOL  AND  THE  CITY  OF  CONTENT 

THERE  was  a  fool  once,   and  to   every  one  that 
passed   him   he   said,   "Look!"   pointing    with   his 
finger.    But  no  one  saw  anything.     Yet  he  continued 
to  point  ever  more  and  more  urgently. 

And  after  a  while  a  few  persons  thought  he  must  surely 
see  something,  and  they  stood  by  him  longer  than  the 
others,  and  tried  a  little  to  see  at  what  he  was  pointing. 

But  most  of  the  people  shook  their  heads  and  smiled, 
and  after  a  while  no  one  heeded  the  fool,  and  there  he 
stood  pointing  and  hailing  each  passerby  year  after 
year,  until  he  died.  And  when  he  was  dead,  the  people 
in  jest  made  a  mound  of  earth  over  his  grave,  to  com 
memorate  the  fool. 

And  year  after  year  the  tradition  of  the  fool  went  from 
father  to  son  until  a  few  generations  had  passed,  when 
behold!  one  day  a  youth  stood  where  the  fool  had  stood, 
and  he  looked  as  his  father  laughingly  pointed  as  the 
fool  had  done; 

And  the  youth  cried  out,  "O  father,  see!"  and  the 
father's  face  grew  solemn,  for  he  likewise  saw  or 
thought  he  saw,  and  he  called  to  others,  and  the 
laughter  was  hushed,  and  each  beholder  called  his 
friends  and  his  kin,  and  each  shuddered  as  he  looked. 

And  through  the  city  of  content  there  ran  a  shudder 
like  that  which  ran  through  each  beholder.  But  it  was 
too  late;  and  ere  long  rivers  of  crimson  flowed  through 
the  streets,  and  at  noonday  it  was  dark  like  a  starless 
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night,  and  shrieks  of  inhuman  things  rent  the  silence, 
and  in  each  house  death  kissed  some  one  on  the  lips. 

And  the  fool  arose  from  his  tomb  and  wept  for  the 
children  of  the  people  he  had  loved. 


MYSELF 

ALL  the  questions  have  I  asked, 
All  things  have  I  tried; 
But  nothing  satisfied. 
"There  is  no  vital  task 
Except  to  wait  till  time  has  fled 
And  I  am  dead," 
I  said. 

Thus  I  walked  in  living  death, 

Smiled  at  God's  great  trick 

Of  life,  till  I  grew  sick 

Of  smiles;  and  then  in  breath 

All  hot  and  vile  with  bitter  cry 

I  prayed  that  I 

Might  die. 

Back  I  pushed  all  human  creeds, 

Standing  lone  and  nude 

With  God  in  solitude, 

And  lo!  from  out  the  weeds 

Of  human  thought  I  looked  in  awe, 

MYSELF  I  saw 

Was  law. 

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I  STOOD  AT  THE  CROSSING  OF  TWO  STREETS 

1  STOOD  at  the  crossing  of  two  streets  in  a  great  city, 
and  I  watched  the  lines  of  humanity  coming  and 
going. 

I  stood  until  my  limbs  ached,  and  I  grew  weary  of 
watching. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  these  lines  of  life  moved  more 
quickly  all  the  time. 

Nearly  every  face  was  hard  set,  and  I  remember  none 
that  smiled.  No  calm  steps  there  were,  or  pleasant 
exchange  of  human  speech,  only  a  hurrying  to  and  fro; 

Some  breaking  into  and  through  the  lines,  that  they 
might  go  the  faster. 

I  wandered  away,  sick  at  heart,  like  a  wound-belated 
soldier  crossing  a  battlefield  strewn  with  dying,  or  like 
one  passing  a  mad-house  wherein  are  confined  his 
kinsmen; 

And  I  thought  of  Dante  and  his  visions. 

What  to  this  hurrying  mass  are  the  beauties  of  art  and 
the  songs  of  poets! 

What  self-forgetful  soul  shall  break  the  arms  that  hold 
o'er  these  the  iron  lash  of  need! 

Who  shall  touch  to  joy  and  faith  this  nervous,  fearing 
race, 

And  plant  again  the  blooms  of  love  and  the  dreams 
of  hope! 

I  wandered  away,  sick  at  heart,  wondering  that  this 

should  be  the  boast  of  man. 

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I   PONDER    O'ER   LOVE 

I  PONDER  o'er  love  and  o'er  death, 
O'er  fame  and  unrequited  toil, 
O'er  placid  young  men   and  young  women 
Dreaming  in  the  day  of  their  dreams, 
O'er  hard-headed  men  of  trade, 
And  the  public  cheat  held  in  high  esteem, 
O'er  the  patient  artist  buying  with  his  youth 
That  which  he  shall  gain  in  age 
But  cannot  enjoy,  the  day  of  pleasure  being  past; 
O'er  the  young  nun,  barred  from  the  world, 
Yet  bound  by  nature  to  be  still  a  woman; 
I  ponder  o'er  the  tragedy  of  idealists 
Living  in  a  world  of  bog; 

O'er  ministers   grown  larger  than   their  doctrine, 
O'er  the  chance-taker  who  has  lost, 
And  o'er  him  who  has  won, 
O'er  proud,  beautiful,  idle  women, 
And  humble,  ugly,  toiling  ones, 
O'er  the  tired  worker  in  the  shop, 
And  the  master  of  the  shop, 
O'er  solitary  women  who  sit  in  gloom, 
O'er  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom 
And  the  secret  chamber  that  is  theirs, 
O'er  the  dead  love  of  them  that  still  live, 
O'er  the  mystery  of  the  mother's  love, 
And  the  agony  of  ungrateful  children  loved, 
O'er  lonely  sailors  out  at   sea, 
Ever  watching  the  dead,  dead  waters, 
O'er   soul-poisoned  kings   of  nations   and   gold; 
I  ponder  o'er  myself,  indifferently  just, 
Breathless  in  the  roaring  sea  of  time.— 

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Let  me  forgive  much,  forget  more; 
Let  me  close  my  eyes  and  fall  half  asleep, 
That  the  pictures  may   grow  softer  and  stiller, 
And  the  life,  O  thou  God!  again  grow  gentle. 

THE    TASK 


I  KNOW  I  do  not  understand  this  world, 
This  universe  of  life  and  growth   and  death. 
I  do  not  damn  the  Maker,  saying  still 
Within  myself  that  surely  all  is   well. 
The  myriad  stars  shine  nightly  in  the  sky, 
The  earth  yields   forth  her  budding  brood  in  spring, 
And  always  dawn  and  noon  and  dark  succeed; 
Volcanoes  burst  and  flooding  rains  descend, 
And  sprigs  shoot  forth  where  barren  winter  lay; 
The  piping  winds  bound  through  the  bending   trees, 
And   withered    leaves    again    return   to    earth; 
Soft  lips  grow  hard  and  tresses  gold  turn  gray; 
Sweet  babes  are  born,  and  stooping,  aged  men 
Depart  into  the  soft  and  silent  night. 
And  not  one  jot  of  all  this  can  I  change. 

II 

Nor  you,  my  metaphysics  peddling  friend, 
Explaining  how  the  cosmic  wheels  go  round. 
I,  too,  was  once  a  trader  in  that  junk, 
And  oft  have  strutted  in  the  lecture  room, 
Showing  all  my  choicest  wares  to   students  bland: 
Kant's  Dinge  an  sich  I  doled  in  precious  lots 
To  scholars,  in  return  for  which  they  gave 
A  year  of  nightly  brooding,  swearing  still 
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'Twas  worth  the  price  to  be  so  well  equipped 

For  life.     (I  know  they  cursed  me  later  on, 

As  I  my  pompous  masters,  too,  have  cursed.) 

And  gloomy  Schopenhauer's  raging    Witt 

I  crammed  into  the  throats  of  sweet  young  men; 

And  all  the  other  tribes   of  babbling  seers 

I  sold  with  profit  to  myself,  until 

At  last  my  heart  awoke  and  called  me  fool — 

Called  me  fool,  for  I  had  seen  how  each 

By  reason  stoutly  contradicted  each; 

Saw  the  world  submerged  in  theories  wild, 

Saw  all  things  proven  which   men  pleased  to  think, 

Until  my  mind  in  contradiction  fell. 

But  o'er  the  dreams  of  philosophic  seers, 

I  heard  with  certain  ear  the  moaning  cries 

That  burst  from  out  the  souls  of  human  want. 

These  alone,  when  all  else  failed,  were  real! 

Ill 

And  you,  my  dealers  in  theology, 

Forgetting  all  the  Christs  that  tread  the  earth, 

And  calling  loud  for  patrons  everywhere, 

Know  you  the  chambers  in  the  house  of  God? 

Just  how  He  made  the  thing  and  of  what  stuff? 

With  Christ  have  you  walked  through  the  pits  of  hell? 

And  do  you  know  the  souls  of  mortals  doomed? 

Who  told  you  all  the  secret  ways  of  God,    \ ,  \ 

That  you  may  dole  the  keys  of  paradise 

To  them  that  buy  in  fear  your  ragged  wares? 

Back  to  the  vales  of  darkness  all  ye  mongers 

That   steal  of  earth  its  joy,  and  fill  the  world 

With  midnight  mists  of  ignorance  and  fear! 

With  all  your  wisdom  not  a  raindrop  more 

Nor  less  shall  fall  to  quench  the  thirst  of  earth. 

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% »:.  » 


IV 

Amid  the  pedantry  of  mountebanks, 

Parading  wrathful  gods  with  horned  heads, 

The  silent  universe  goes  on  its  way, 

Scornful  of  twaddling  bugs'  sophistic  lore. 

The  myriad  stars  shine  nightly  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  yields  forth  her  budding  brood  in  spring; 

All  nature  moves  as  by  a  hand  unseen. 

And  not  one  jot  of  all  this  can  I  change, 

Nor  you,  my  mortal  friend,  whoe'er  you  are. 

Ignorant  am  I  of  cosmic  things, 

And  you,  and  ignorant  shall  ever  be. 

But  we  are  not  forlorn  in  wild  despair: 

We  still  may  turn  our  eyes  across  the  night, 

All  lustrous  in  the  gold  of  other  worlds, 

Where  seas  of  dark  reach  on  to  seas  of  dawn, 

And  whisper  to  the  silent  soul  within, 

That  all's  in  place  in  this  God-impassioned  world. 


But  there  are  things  my  eyes  have  often  seen 

That  stop  the  crimson  rivers  of  the  heart, 

That  cause  the  breath  to  halt  ere  it  rush  forth 

To  mingle  with  the  breathings  of  the  world — 

Not  cosmic  things  no  human  hand  can  change* 

Nor  tampered  history,  sacred  or  profane, 

The  bouncing  ball  of  babbling  pedantry; 

But  worlds  of  faces  damned  ere  they  did  leave 

The  yielding  womb  to  be  despised  of  men, 

Born   slaves   to   know  the  lash  from  childhood  frail, 

And  fed  into   the  mouths  of  mammoth  mills 

Where  Christian  lords  pile  up  their  godless  gold. 

What  boots  the  question  here  of  trinity? 

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VI 

And  I  have  seen  ill-shapen  women  stare 

From   sorrow   sodden   faces   early   old, 

As  plodding  on  to  toil  they  went  at  dawn, 

Still    childless,   homeless,    solitary   souls. 

Once  these  were  young  and  sweet  to  look  upon, 

And   fit   for   babes   to   bloom   upon   their   breasts, 

Like  drowsy  roses  dewy  fresh  at  dawn. 

These  oft  had  whispered  prayers  for  lover's  kiss 

That's  born  of  righteous  love  in  stilly  night, 

And   dreamed   the   dream   but  women  understand 

Of  unborn  babes  that   smiled  within   their   sleep, 

Nightly  clamoring  to   be  born  of  them. 

Unloved   they   wandered   in   a   loveless    world 

To  join  the  women  dead  from  early  times, 

The  helots  mute  of  wanton  avarice. 

What  grief  so  great  to  wither  in  the  bud, 

And   ne'er   press   tight   the   moistened  lips   of   love, 

To  dream  of  music  that  one  may  not  hear, 

And  miss  the  clinging  arms  at  break  of  dawn! 

And  millions  yet  shall  die  with  withered  breasts 

Where   babes   have   never   touched   their   tender   lips. 

VII 

And  I  have  heard  the  cries  of  younger  men 
That  saw  no  more  the  stars  above  their  heads, 
Shut  ever  in  by  trade's  benighting  bog — 
Young   men   that   still  did   hold   to   early   dreams, 
O'ermatched  by  them  whose   cunning   had  no   heart, 
And  left  the  prey  of  human  vulture's  greed 
With    saddened   eyes   that    kindly   looked    at   death. 
No  love's  embrace  to  speed  their  nightly  coming, 
Nor  children  clamoring   for  sweet  caress, 


The  Book    f  Rebellion 


And  claiming  yet  another  fabled  story 

Ere  led  by  gentle  hands   to  dreamland's  door; 

Lonely  followers   of  goodness   still, 

Though  laughed  to  scorn  by  them  whom  they  did  serve. 

What  earthly  captain  with  his  spoils  of  trade 

Shall  right  the  wrongs  of  these  that  lie  so  still, 

If  God  perchance  forget  again  to  touch 

To  conscious  life  these  earthly  scar-marked  souls, 

And  light  again  the  citadels  of  thought? 

O  who  will  close  the  wounds   of  these  that   fell 

Before  the  piping  spears  of  avarice? 

VIII 

And  here  and  there,  I  know,  the  sweet  green  earth, 

Where  now  some  quiet  planter  turns  the  soil, 

Shall  once   again   be  wet   with  human   blood; 

And  oft  again   the  knife  shall  deftly  rise 

To   strike  a  brother  down  in  godless  wars, 

And   children   weep   again    o'er   grassy   mounds, 

And  stooping  women,  from  whose  face  the  rose 

Has  fled,  shall  think  again  of  early  love; 

And  younger   women  dream   what   might  have  been. 

And    all   for   what?     That   traffic   patriots 

May  wreck   for  profit's  sake  the  weaker  nations. 

O  profit,  crowned  on  high  as  earthly  king, 

Stretching  thy  blood-stained   hand   across   the  world, 

Well   armed  with  Bible,   rum  and  edged  blade, 

To  thee  a  life  is  but  a  leaf  of  grass; 

Thy   ears   are   deaf  to   stunted   children's  wails, 

And   dumb  thy  palsied  tongue   to   mercy's   word! 

Thou   soulless    low-browed    god   of    gloated   gold, 

When  shall  we  shake  thee  off,  and  once  again 

Build  up  the  kingdom  of  the  human  heart! 

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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


IX 

The  fight  to  live  is  now  with  man,  not  nature. 

The  goodly  earth  yields  but  by  touch  of  hand 

Enough  for  all.     But  o'er  the  bloom  of  fields, 

And  treasures  hid  deep  down,  and  useful  craft, 

The  misered  hand  of  greed  crawls  in  the  night; 

And   all  the  air  is  charged  with  words   of   gain, 

From  trader's   shop  unto  the  thrones   of  art. 

The  smell  of  profit  clings  e'en  to  the  God 

That  men  implore  and  barter  with  in  prayer, 

And  all  who  breathe  must  breathe  this  charged  fume. 

Thus  millions  wither  ere  the  noon  of  life 

And  die  in  soul  long  ere  we  bury  them. 

The  rushing  steps  that  move  in  crowded  marts 

Go  not  of  choice,  but  driven  by  the  lash, 

And  dare  not  pause  lest  they  be  trampled  down. 

X 

Here,  then,  abides  the  work  of  wakened  man; 

To  break  the  chains  that  would  a  brother  bind, 

And  stay  the  misered  hand  that  now  is  full, 

To  draw  grim  profit's  heel  from  childhood  frail, 

And  loose  the  women  slaves  in  holes   of  hell, 

To  lift  the  human  heart  from  graves   of  gold, 

And  knock  unceasingly  on  temple  doors 

Where  feeble   souls  have  slumbered  long, 

To  plant  a  rose  in  every  barren  breast, 

And  in  the  din  and  tumult  of  the  world 

To  sing  and  teach  and  live  the  things  of  love. 

XI 

The   sunshine  calmly  paints  its  twilight  hues 
Each  day  in  still  extremities  of  earth; 

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And  nowhere  blooms  a  leaf  but  speaks  of  love; 
The  stars  fret  not  aglow  in  mellow  night, 
And  soft  peep  forth  like  village  lights  at  eve; 
The  forest  winds  resound  the  melodies 
That  live  alone  in  quiet,   wooded  worlds; 
O'er  ragged   mountains,   plains   and  lapping   seas, 
The  silent   ships   float    on   the   soundless  wave; 
The   nightingale  still   spends   his   only  song 
In  noon  of  night;  and  wander  birds  still  rove, 
As  in  the  olden  times,  each  with  his  mate; 
The  quiet  moonlight  tiptoes  o'er  the  earth, 
Like  playful  water  on  a  sandy  beach; 
And  wandering  in  its  noiseless  path  of  gold 
Arises  olden  bliss  we  knew  ere  birth, 
And  silent  robes  of  beauty  deck  the  world, 
From  tender  leaf  to  twilight's  quiet  stars. — 
O  lift  us  up,  thou  God  of  all,  to  love, 
Above  the  soulless  martyrdom  of  things! 
The  rushing  world  is  hungry  at  the  heart. 


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* 9 * 


ONE   OF   LONG   AGO 

HAST  never  sat  with  sadness  in  the  stilly,  stilly  night, 
When  all  the  dancing  day's  bright  beams  of  sun 
had  gone  to  flight, 
And  through  the  pulseless  falling  dark  a  luring  wind 

sang  low 
The  music  that  the  stars  march  to  so  silently  and  slow? 

Hast  never  sat  and  thought  of  one,  'mid  sad  old  mem 
ory's  tears, — 

One  who  had  lived  within  your  heart  through  all  the 
joyous  years? 

'Tis  sweet  this  sadness  that  comes  on  when  night  be 
gins  to  fall, 

And  spreads  its  silent  softening  dark  through  chamber 
doors  and  hall. 

It  is  the  only  heritage  that  time  has  left  me  now; 
And  on  its  steady  course  it  keeps  my  vessel's  shattered 

prow. 
And  thus  in  corners  of  each  life  you'll  find  some  hidden 

face 
That  through  the  years  keeps  marching  on  and  holds 

each  soul  in  place. 

So  let  the  night  grow  thicker  still  and  breezes  turn  to 

storm, 
There's  armored  safe  within  my  heart  and  free  from 

earthly  harm 
This   smiling   face   of   one   who   looks   into   my   eyes 

e'en  now, 
While  through  the  world  I  go  alone  till  snow  lies  on 

my  brow. 
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* * » 


TO   BE   WITH   YOU 

TO  BE  with  you  this  evening,  rarest  of  the  evenings 
all, 
And  listen  to  the  whispering  leaves  and  to  the  night 

bird's  call, 

The  silvery  moonlight  on  your  face — 
To  be  with  you  in  some  still  place. 

To  be  somewhere  alone  with  you  and  watch  the  myriad 

stars, 
Far  golden  worlds  beyond  the  noisy  earth's  unkindly 

jars, 

As  quietly  they  sail  night's  sea 
Above  the  world  and  you  and  me. 

To  be  with  you  somewhere  within  this  evening's  mystic 

shade, 
To  hear  your  plans  and  hopes  and  tell  you  mine,  all 

unafraid 

That  you'd  forget  to  hold  them  dear, 
When  I'm  away  and  you're  not  here. 

To  be  with  you  and  listen  to  the  harp  of  summer's 

breeze, 
Alone   with   night   and   wavering   stars,    beneath   the 

lisping  trees, 

To  feel  the  cool  of  falling  dew — 
To  be  somewhere  alone  with  you. 

To  be  with  you  this  evening,  rarest  of  the  evenings  all, 
And  listen  to  the  whispering  leaves  and  to  the  night 

bird's  call, 

The  silvery  moonlight  on  your  face — 
To  be  with  you  in  some  still  place. 

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A  MAN   AND   A   WOMAN 

A  MAN  and  a  woman  once  walked  in  the  evening 
to  a  wood,  that  the  trees  might  hide  them  from 
the  light. 

Far  into  the  deep  shadows  wandered  they,  when  one 
said,  in  fear,  "Let  us  return."  It  does  not  matter  which 
one  said  it. 

Still  they  wandered  in  the  dark,  watching  the  light 
within  themselves,  as  it  glowed  in  the  garden  of 
their  love. 

The  night  came  over  the  world  and  the  wood;  and 
seeing  they  had  tarried  too  long,  they  determined  to 
return  at  dawn. 

But — it  is  an  odd  story — do  you  know,  it  never  again 
grew  morning  in  that  wood? 


AT  THE  DANCE 

VV  7E  circled  oft  the  hall  in  varying  motions, 
\\      And  talked,  through  all  the  music  wrought, 
Of  friends  and  dress  and  common  things; 
But  here  is  the  speech  I  thought: 

"Before  the  night  has  yielded  all  its  music 
And  the  dance  is  o'er  and  dawn  is  here, 

And  the  dream  waltz  plays  as  each  sleeps  on,       § 
Oh,  say  you  love  me,  dear! 

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"I  hold  you  near  to  me;  you  are  my  captive; 

And  the  mellow  night  is  full  of  dew, 
And  as  the  winking,  sleepy  stars 

Wink  on,  I  dance  with  you. 

"Oh,  say  you  love  me,  dear,  while  yet  the  music 
Still  trembles  through  the  waves  of  night, 

Your  fallen  curls  creep  o'er  my  face, 
And  the  house  of  life  is  light! 

"For   o'er   and   o'er   again  this   evening's   dancing 
I'll  dance  with  you  in  memory's  hall, 

And  feel  your  whispers  on  my  cheek 
And  the  rebel  curls  that  fall. 

"And  when  life's  lonely  way  grows  hard  and  narrow, 
And  some  great  lord  your  hand  shall  sue, 

I'll  then  remember  fondly  still 
That  I  have  danced  with  you." 

Instead,  we  talked  of  friends  and  dress  and  nothings; 

And  the  silent  speech  my  heart  had  said 
Lay  silent  still,  and  the  dance  wore  on, 

Till  the  dance  and  night  were  fled. 


WHILE    A    SEASON    CHANGED 

WHILE  a  season  changed  I  lingered  in  a  strange 
city,  filled  with  men  and  women  and  children, 
just  as  other  cities; 

With  buildings  and  trade  and  the  petty  histories  of 
each,  and  the  petty  histories  of  families,  preserved  by 

word  of  lips; 

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With  nightly  entertainments  and  spectacles,  with  actors 
and  orators  and  pleasant  singers,  with  ministers,  with 
rich  and  poor,  just  as  other  cities; 

But  all  has  passed  out  of  me  now  except  the  still  face 
of  a  solitary  woman  looking  at  me  through  the  dim 
years. 

WHEN  I  COME  HOME 

WHEN  I  come  home  will  you  be  there  to  greet 
Me   with   a  smile   and   outstretched   arms, 
A  heart  of  quickened  beat, 
When  our  eyes  meet? 

And  will  you  tell  me   all  your   thoughts  and  deeds, 
As  in  the  gloaming  night  again 
We  take  the  path  that  leads 
O'er  grassy  meads? 

And  as   of  old  will  you  my  grief  beguile — 
The  grief  the  weary   days   have  brought? 
And  will  you  make  me   smile 
With  you  the  while? 

And  as  the  mellow  years  come  on,  will  you 
Remember  still  that  love  is  young 
And  fresh  as  morning  dew 
For  me  and  you? 

I'm  coming  home  ere  long  to  you  who  wait 

So  patiently  as  seasons  go, 

Beside  the  woodland  gate 

In  evenings  late. 

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In  fancy's  eye  a  thousand  times  I  see 
You   there  with   eager,   anxious  look 
That  scans  the  rolling  lea 
In  search  of  me. 

I  see  you  run  into  my  arms  at  last, 

And  feel  the  tremor  of  your  lips. 

The  world  aside  is  cast, 

And  care  is  past. 

I'm  coming  home  ere  long  to  you  who  wait 

So  patiently  as  seasons  go, 

Beside  the  woodland  gate 

In  evenings  late. 

SONG 

THE  night  is  here  and  through  the  sky  the  stars 
are  creeping; 

The  tired  day  has  closed  its  door; 
My  heart  is  sad  and  I  am  weeping, 

I  see  her  face  no  more. 
"O  stars,"  I  cry,  "send  out  within  your  golden  gleaming 

This  message  to  my  only  love. 
Perhaps  she,  too,  is  sitting  dreaming, 
With  eyes  that  look  above: 

"Oh,  here,   dear  heart,   how  oft   I've   sat  in  summer 
weather, 

Alone  with  stars  and  dreams  of  you! 
The  stars  will  bring  us  yet  together, 

Like  dawn  that's  kissed  with  dew. 

"Although  I  know  my  wild  heart's   savage  love  will 

soften, 

None  other  shall  I  ever  woo, 

And  in  the  starry  night  yet  often 

I'll  breathe  a  prayer  to  you." 

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In  the  Garden  §f  Love 


AFTER  THE  DAY 

DRAW  your  chair  beside  me  here, 
As  in  other  times,  my  dear; 
Do  not  talk  or  even  smile, 
Sit  in  silence  for  a  while; 
Sweet  contentment  over  all, 
As  the  shadows  on  us  fall. 
'Tis  the  best  of  all  my  life, 
After  each  day's  toil  and  strife, 
In  the  time  of  night  and  dew, 
Thus  to  sit  alone  with  you. 


LET    PASS 

LET  pass,  dear  heart,  let  pass 
This  pain,  this  brief  distress  that  grieves  thee  so— 
These  unkind  words,  and  doubtful,  glancing  eyes, 
In  which  till  now  had  shone  but  kindly  looks; 
I  say  let  pass  the  talk  of  talkers  all. 
Not  one  still  star  of  all  the  night  knows  aught 
Of  their  ill  words,  nor  does  the  growing  green 
In  stilly  woods  where  plays  the  summer  sun, 
Nor  shall  the  days  that  come  to  thee  anon, 
Nor  shall  the  gentle  rain  of  summers  nigh, 
Nor  olden  paths  that  sweetly  greet  thy  feet. 
Thy  soul's  deep  purposes  they  do  not  know; 
Or  knowing,  still  they  could  not  understand. 
Keep  thou  yet  on  the  way  thou  lovest  best, 
For  none  of  all  the  world  knows  it  as  thou, 
And  all  the  precious  facts  that  are  thy  life. 
Therefore,  this  brief  distress  that  grieves  thee  so, 
Let  pass,  dear  heart,  let  pass. 
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THE    DEAD    WIFE 

OTHOU  whose  lips  I've  pressed  in  hush  of  night, 
Whose  tiny  hand  has  trembled  in  my  own 
Beneath  the  talking  boughs  the  wind  has  blown, 
Hid  snugly  from  the  evening's  starry  light — 
O  thou,  my  all,  why  hast  thou  quit  my  sight? 
Thy  straggling  curls  will  no   more  touch  my  cheek, 
Thy  voice  and  smile  are  gone  where'er  I  seek 
With  watchful  eyes  and  my  strong  passion's  might. 
If  all  my  soul's  deep  grief  thou  now  dost  see, 
If  thou  dost  know  the  lonely  inward  tears 
My  heart  hath  shed  along  the  saddened  years, 
Break  through  thy  silent  doors  to  life  and  me, 
Who  hourly  watch  and  wait  with  trembling  fears, 
Lest  in  the  realm  of  death  I  know  not  thee. 


LOVE    SOME    ONE 

U)VE  some  one— in  God's  name  love  some  one— 
or  this  is  the  bread  of  the  inner  life,  without  which 
a  part  of  you  will  starve  and  die;  and  though  you  feel 
you  must  be  stern,  even  hard,  in  your  life  of  affairs, 
make  for  yourself  at  least  a  little  corner,  somewhere 
in  the  great  world,  where  you  may  unbosom  and  be 
kind. 


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The    Crowded    World 


THE    CROWDED    WORLD 

DEPART  from  me  ye  who  are  weary  and  heavy 
laden,  for  I  am  turmoil  and  distress.  Who  seeketh 
gold  and  the  plaudits  of  men  will  find  them  in  me,  but 
who  seeketh  the  things  of  the  spirit  will  not  find  them 
in  me.  I  am  the  battleground  and  the  battle,  the  thun 
der  of  war,  the  cry  of  children.  Who  goeth  in  me  must 
hasten  and  not  tarry,  for  I  am  the  riot  of  men.  Towers 
of  Babel  build  I,  yet  warm  no  hearth-stone  for  the 
human  heart.  I  am  careless  of  life,  and  whosoever 
looketh  upward  shall  not  long  abide  in  me;  for  I  am 
turmoil  and  distress  and  the  riot  of  men. 


THE   PARABLE   OF   THE   SEA 

HE  PUSHED  his  boat  from  the  shore  and  laughed 
with  the  laughter  of  the  sea.    No  desire  of  the  sky 
was  in  his  heart,  only  a  strong  man's  love  for  the  game 
of  the  lapping  wave. 

And  playful  was  the  sea  as  a  tigress  with  her  cub;  but 
he  had  known  the  teeth  of  angry  waves,  and  he  kept 
his  eyes  over  the  water. 

And  as  the  gentle  rocking  changed  to  moving  hills  and 
valleys,  and  as  the  salt  spray  washed  his  face,  and  the 
lisp  and  swish  of  the  sea  turned  to  groans,  still  kept 
he  his  eyes  over  the  water. 

And  then,  as  if  determined  to  embrace  him,  the  monster 
angry  grew;  with  frothy  tendrils  yearning  up  the  sides 
of  his  boat;  and  the  symphony  of  the  sea  broke  loose 
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like  the  grating  of  the  gates  of  hell;  and  a  whir  was  in 
the  wind;  and  a  rain  arose  out  of  the  sea;  and  he  kept 
his  eyes  over  the  water. 

And  after  many  strokes  he  reached  the  shore;  and  he 
laughed  at  the  sea,  and  laughed  over  his  triumph,  for 
the  frothy  tendrils  still  yearned  up  the  rocks  where  he 
bound  fast  his  boat. 

And  soon  the  whir  went  out  of  the  wind,  and  the 
moving  hills  and  valleys  of  the  sea  turned  to  still 
meadows,  and  peace  lay  over  the  water,  and  the  sea 
waited. 

Then  came  forth  another,  a  youth;  and  he  lay  in  his 
bark  that  rocked  nimbly  with  the  rocking  of  the  waves; 
and  he  rested  and  dreamed  and,  as  the  twilight  turned 
to  night,  looked  often  at  the  stars,  fashioning  out  of 
his  desire  a  temple  for  the  heart  of  man. 

The  gentle  swells  murmured,  singing  to  rest  his  soul, 
and  filling  with  music  the  temple  of  his  dream;  and  as 
time  passed  on  he  looked  ever  longer  toward  the  sky 
and  the  stars. 

At  last  the  murmuring  sea,  singing  to  rest  his  soul,  and 
filling  with  music  the  temple  of  his  dream,  took  him  to 
herself,  caressing  him  tenderly,  kissing  his  cheek  and 
stroking  softly  his  body;  and  the  foam  of  the  sea  was 
in  his  hair,  and  a  weed  of  the  sea  lay  on  his  breast. 

Then  the  sea  ceased  to  murmur  and  gurgle  and  lisp  and 
lap;  and  the  stillness  lying  over  the  water  was  as  a 
prayer;  and  the  people  of  the  sea  gathered  round  him, 
and  the  universe  was  still  as  it  was  before  time,  and 
the  sea  waited. 

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THERE  WAS  A  YOUNG  ARTIST 


was  a  young  artist  once,  and  his  heart  was 
JL  filled  with  love,  and  truth  was  on  his  lips,  and  he 
sought  to  do  men  good. 

He  painted  a  picture  called  "The  Love  of  the  World"; 
but  before  he  had  finished,  he  sat  often  with  hunger 
and  went  clad  in  the  garments  of  want. 

At  last  the  picture  was  finished,  but  there  was  no  one 
to  requite  him  either  in  love  or  gold. 

His  friends  knew  he  was  only  one  of  them,  and  they 
were  sure  he  was  not  a  great  artist;  and  strangers  knew 
not  of  him. 

And  soon  want  laid  its  hand  upon  him,  and  the  love 
in  his  heart  turned  to  hate,  and  the  truth  on  his  lips 
turned  to  lies; 

For  the  God  he  had  worshipped  and  trusted  and  leaned 
upon  was  dead  or  had  forsaken  him; 

And  out  of  desperation  he  painted  another  picture,  and 
also  called  it  "The  Love  of  the  World,"  but  in  his  heart 
he  knew  it  was  "The  Hate  of  the  World." 

But  the  lie  was  caught  up  by  the  people,  and  strangers 
came,  and  he  had  food  and  wherewith  to  clothe  himself, 
and  years  went  on,  and  he  prospered. 

Only  a  spark  of  the  early  artist  lived  in  his  heart;  and 
often  when  he  stood  before  the  picture  in  the  house  of 
him  who  had  bought  it,  he  looked  cautiously  about, 
and  if  alone,  drew  himself  up  erect,  and  pronounced 
aloud  the  words,  "The  Hate  of  the  World." 
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And  once  standing  so,  and  pronouncing  the  words 
aloud,  he  was  overheard  by  his  friend  who  had  pur 
chased  the  picture. 

And  his  friend  besought  him  to  speak  the  words  no 
more,  lest  he  be  overheard,  and  the  picture  become 
valueless. 

But  ever  thereafter  the  owner  himself  saw  "The  Hate 
of  the  World"  when  he  stood  before  the  picture;  and 
once  he  likewise  pronounced  the  words  aloud  as  he 
stood  before  it. 

And  he  likewise  was  overheard  by  a  neighbor  who 
chanced  to  be  his  guest;  and  so  ere  long  all  the  people 
came  to  understand  that  the  picture  which  they  had 
loved  was  in  fact  "The  Hate  of  the  World." 

And  each  in  his  time,  as  he  stood  before  it,  pronounced 
the  fatal  words;  and  the  people  sought  out  the  artist, 
and  demanded  to  know  why  he  had  deceived  them. 

Then  brought  he  forth  his  first  picture,  which  was  in 
deed  "The  Love  of  the  World";  and  when  he  told  the 
people,  they  laughed  at  him,  and  believed  him  not. 

And  some  were  for  bruising  his  flesh,  and  some  for 
taking  his  life,  and  others  said,  "We  will  drive  him 
from  the  city." 

And  they  drove  him  from  the  city;  and  as  he  passed  out 
the  gate,  and  turned  and  looked  over  the  buildings  and 
the  towers  of  the  temples  of  justice  and  of  God,  he 
wept;  for  it  was  the  city  of  his  birth. 

And  they  burned  his  first  picture  before  his  eyes. 
And  the  magistrates  of  the  city  assembled,  and  forbade 
that  there  be  painted  any  other  picture,  or  carven  any 
statue,  lest  the  people  be  defiled. 

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I   KNOW 

AND  will  you  put  the  verse  aside 
Because  you've  tried 
To  all  the  measure  of  your  strength? 
And  ask  at  length, 

Why  should  you  follow  words  like  these 
Which  wish  to  please? 
And   are   you   tired — your   courage   low? — 
I  know. 

These  words  are  dead,  they  clothe  you  not, 

Nor  fill  the  lot 

Of  pressing  needs  that  steal  your  days 

Till  evening's  rays. 

You  will  not   read — nor  have  the  time? 

You  say  I  rhyme 

With  selfishness  and  pride  aglow? 

I  know. 

And  true  it  is  these  words  are  dead; 

No  cloth  they  spread, 

Nor  shelter  bring  to  you  at  night, 

Nor  gold  by  light 

Of  morning  when  perchance  you  stray 

So  still  away 

From  strangers'  doors  in  spirits  low — 

I  know. 

The  strong  man's  hopeless  work  of  years, 
His  inward  tears; 
The  dying  youth  of  her  unwooed, 
Her  solitude; 

The  broken  heart's  unseen  distress, 
Its  sleeplessness; 

The  honored  now  dishonored  so — 
I  know. 
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Where'er  you  are,  though  far  or  near, 

I'd  bring  you  cheer; 

And  you  of  full-blown  maiden's  grace, 

And  you  of  face 

All  warped  and   drawn  in   time's   caprice, 

I'd  bring  you  peace. 

In  secret  longing  all  you  go— 

I  know. 

I've  dined  in  good  men's  gracious  halls; 

I've  heard  the  calls 

Of  lonely  fishers  where  I  slept 

And  waters  crept 

Along  the  barren  banks  of  need. 

I've  piped  the  reed, 

And  broken  love's  sad  music  low 

I  know. 

To  you  who  walk  in  shadows  dark 

And  keenly  hark 

For  kindly  words  if  but  to  live, 

Myself  I  give, 

My  life  and  all  my  heart  and  hand 

Here  where  I  stand. 

'Tis  thus  that  both  our  lives  will  grow 

I  know. 

I  bring  but  this  one  common  thought 

My  life  has  wrought; 

That  from  the  dregs  of  drear  despair 

Still  everywhere 

There  is  a  joy  I  yet  may  sip— 

'Tis  comradeship 

With  all  mankind,  the  high  and  low 

I  know. 

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O    PASSER-BY 

O  PASSER-BY,  O  passer-by! 
Have  you  good  words  of  me 
Upon  your  lips  as  I  draw  nigh 
To  you  each  day? 
If  so,  I  ask 
That  you'd  them  say, 
For  soon  I'm  gone  and  cannot  hear, 
So  speak  the  kindly  word 
I  beg,  and  smile  while  yet  I'm  near. 
I'd  speak  to  you, 
If  courage  came, 
And  I  quite  knew 

You'd  take  the  love  my  heart  oft  sends, 
And  give  me  yours  as  well. 
O  passer-by,  come,  let's  be  friends! 
Life's  smiles  and  tears 
And  happiness 
And  childish  fears 

Are  mine,  just  like  your  own  each  day, 
(You  understand,  I  know.) 
So  come  and  let's  be  friends,  I  say. 


YOU  WHO  WRANGLE  WITH  ME  AT  THE  MART 

YOU  who  see  the  stern  side  of  me,  you  who  wrangle 
with  me  at  the  mart,  discussing  prices  with  me,  pro 
and  con — do  not  condemn  me. 

I  do  not  condemn  you,  for  you  are  a  chattel  like  myself, 
answering  the  necessities  of  the  day — you  who  wrangle 
with  me  at  the  mart. 
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Underneath  the  wrinkled  face,  you  have  to  me  a  gentle 
face,  and  between  the  rough  words,  I  hear  your  other 
voice — kind  and  low; 

This  I  shall  remember,  forgetting  all  else;  for  this  shall 
I  hear  again;  and  by  this,  in  the  glow  of  another  dawn, 
shall  I  know  you. 


BROKEN   VETERAN    OF   COMMERCIAL  WARS 

AFTER  the  smoke  and  roaring  and  desolation  of  the 
battle  of  middle  life, 

After  long  marches  and  countermarches,  privation, 
dreary,  godless  skies,  and  speechless  weariness, 

After  changes  and  the  death  of  the  beloved  and  all  who 
knew  you  in  your  youth, 

Will  you,  broken  veteran  of  commercial  wars,  turn 
again  to  the  green  fields  of  your  youth? 

And  though  the  spoils  of  war  be  yours,  once  more,  with 
the  simplicity  of  childhood,  will  you  plant  love  in  your 
heart, 

Grow  gentle  and  walk  again  with  God  over  the  olden 
hills  and  by  the  still  flowing  waters, 

And  be  pleased  once  more  to  be  innocent  in  your  desires 
and  to  grow  sweetly  tender  in  your  heart — you,  you, 
broken  veteran  of  commercial  wars? 

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A  VISIT  TO  A  MAN  OF  FAME 

'•pHUS  spoke  he: 

1  If  you  expect  perfection  in  this  world,  you  are  con 
demned.  In  my  youth  I  saw  the  golden  city  of  joy 
just  before  me — always  just  before  me. 

Oh,  it  was  beautiful!  It  was  winter  and  night  was 
coming  on,  and  a  young  woman  was  looking  out  of  a 
door  now  and  then.  A  bright  fire  sparkled  and  gave 
life  to  the  room.  A  baby  slept  in  a  white  bed;  the 
evening  meal  was  laid.  There  was  a  bird  in  a  cage  and 
a  dog  lying  by  the  fire.  I  said  the  woman  looked  out 
now  and  then.  Stillness,  gentleness,  light  and  warmth 
breathed  through  the  scene  in  contrast  with  the  dark 
and  cold  outside;  and  strange,  this  never,  never 
changed:  it  was  always  winter  and  night  was  coming 
on,  and  always  quiet  and  peaceful,  warmth  and  light, 
and  always  a  young  woman  looking  out  of  the  door 
now  and  then. 

And  every  day  I  prayed  inwardly  that  I  might  know 
the  love  of  this  vision;  and  in  my  credulous  youth  I 
trusted  the  great  God,  Him  of  the  sky  sown  with  stars 
and  the  sun  and  the  moon. 

But  I  never  knew  the  room  and  the  woman  and  the 
child  and  the  cheering  glow  and  the  peace.  I  was 
always  behind  the  carnival  of  silver  and  gold;  and  who 
would  know  love  must  be  in  the  midst  of  the  carnival, 
for  it  is  the  age  of  the  carnival  of  silver  and  gold.  And 
the  vision  remained  the  counterfeit  coinage  of  my  brain, 
a  lure  in  the  soul,  as  you  poets  say,  something  like 
music  one  thinks  one  hears  in  the  night. 
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Now  I  am  an  old  man,  and  now  I  am  in  the  midst  of 
the  carnival  of  silver  and  gold,  and  the  dancers  dangle 
round  me,  and  there  are  women — so  many  women,  good 
and  beautiful;  but  I  have  no  desire,  the  fruit  of  my 
labor  has  ripened,  but  the  leaves  of  the  tree  of  passion 
are  dead;  the  dream  is  spent,  the  heart  hunger  forgot, 
and  I  lie  like  a  shell  on  the  shore  of  time,  awaiting  a 
wave  that  shall  wash  me  to  sea. 

TO-MORROW 

HOW  oft  you've  said  to-morrow 
Is  time  enough  to  speak  a  gentle  word 
To  one  whose  olden  friendship  time  had  blurred 
And  set  to  naught  sweet  trysts  of  other  years, 
When  life  and  love  and  faith  were  pledged  with  tears 
That  flowed  as  others'  griefs  you  heard — 
To-morrow  you  intend  to  speak  the  word. 

In  discontent,  to-morrow 

Is  then  the  golden  day  when  you  have  thought 

To  build  the  temple  which  in  dreams  you'd  wrought 

So  beautiful  that  aged  men  would  say 

With  pride  they  knew  you  in  their  childhood's  day. 

Though  old  ambitions  come  to  naught, 

To-morrow  is   the  golden  time  you've  thought. 

When  worn  with  care,  to-morrow 

You'll  change  your  course  for  one  which  steals  away 

To  quiet  lands  where  cooling  shadows  stray, 

And  sunbeams  tremble  on  the  placid  green, 

Far  off  in  some  forgotten  olden  scene; 

And  there  as  once  you'll  rest  and  play. 

To-morrow  you  are  going  far  away. 

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In  childhood  scenes,  to-morrow 

With  long  embrace  your  heart  will  melt  like  snow, 

Close  by  the  Mother's  heart  whose  love  you  know. 

Those  lips  from  which  the  rose  is  gone  will  press 

Your  joyous,  tearful  cheek  with  mild  caress. 

Again  she'll  speak  in  accents  low. 

To-morrow  you  will  kiss  the  brow  of  snow. 

Art  lonely?    Then  to-morrow 
You'll  freely  yield  your  aching  heart  the  time 
To  weave  some  love  romance  of  purest  rhyme. 
With  throbbing  heart  at  fall  of  silent  night 
You'll  speed  to  one  who  waits  by  evening  light, 
With  thoughts  uplifted  and  sublime. 
To-morrow  you  will  yield  your  heart  the  time. 

When  age  has  come,  to-morrow 

You'll  speak  with  God  to  leave  some  kindly  deeds 

Writ  by  your  name  that  softened  selfish  creeds 

Of  man's  slow  moving  love  of  brotherhood, 

That  brought  new  hope  to  them  who  near  you  stood 

In  life's  dark  streets  or  sunlit  meads. 

To-morrow  you'll  ask  God  for  better  deeds. 

To-morrow,  O  to-morrow! 

Fast  fall  the  fading  years.     A  thought,  a  dream 
Of  gentle  words;  of  faith  and  love  a  theme; 
A  smile,  a  step  or  two,  and  all  is  done. 
Quick  is  the  veering  stream  of  life  full  run; 
Yet  in  the  crimson  west  still  gleam 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow's  endless  dream. 


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THE  HATE  AND  THE  LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD 

I   HAVE  seen  men  binding  their  brothers  in  chains, 
and  crafty  traders  reaching  for  the  bread  that  women 
and  babes  lifted  to  their  mouths; 

I  have  seen  merciless  greed  extracting  yet  the  last 
pittance  from  the  defenseless  and  weak; 

I  have  seen  suffering  go  unaided,  and  known  the  sting 
ing  malice  of  them  I  loved; 

I  have  heard  the  iron  din  of  war,  and  have  seen  the 
waxen  face  of  early  death; 

And  I  have  cried  in  my  heart,  "the  world  is  hate!" 

I  have  heard  birds  calling  their  mates  in  the  still  for 
ests,  and  insects  chirping  to  their  loves  in  the  tangled 
grass  of  meadows; 

I  have  seen  mothers  caressing  their  babes,  and  aged 
men  supporting  with  devotion  the  slow  steps  of  stoop 
ing  women; 

I  have  seen  cheerful  hearthstones  surrounded  by  laugh 
ing  children  and  strong  men  and  sweet  women; 

I  have  heard  the  tender  words  of  lovers  in  the  pure 
passion  of  youth; 

And  I  have  cried  in  my  heart,  "the  world  is  love!" 

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OFTEN   IN  THE   CROWDED    MART 

THOUGH  changed  as   are  my  songs  from  youth, 
A  voice  within  my  heart  still  sings, 
"Live  thou  in  tenderness  and  truth, 

And  love  mankind  instead  of  things." 
And  often  in  the  crowded  mart, 

With  wrangling,  selfish  slaves  of  men, 
These  words  like  some  old  song  will  start, 
And  bring  me  to  myself  again. 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

NO   ONE  has  come  to  me   to-day, 
And  night  is  almost  here; 
And  as  the  world  grows  hard  within 
The  world  without  grows  dear. 

O  beautiful  world  of  green  and  gold, 
Of  bloom  and  blossom  gay, 

Of  laughter,  health  and  perfect  sleep, 
O  take  me  back  some  day! 

0  take  me  back!     I  still  am  young, 
And  still  would  know  the  sweet 

Of  lover's  whisper  in  the  dawn, 
When  lips  on  lips  shall  meet. 

1  still  would  hear  a  woman's  voice 
By  quiet  evening  light, 

And  plans  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  last  a  sweet  good-night. 
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O  beautiful  world  of  green  and  gold! 

I  now  resign  to  fate, 
While  evening  shadows  softly  fall, 

And  I  lie  still  and  wait. 

IF  YOU  HAVE  MADE  GENTLER  THE 
CHURLISH  WORLD 

IF    YOU   have    spoken    something    beautiful, 
Or  touched  the  dead  canvas  to  life, 
Or  made  the  cold  stone  to  speak — 
You  who  know  the  secret  heart  of  beauty; 
If  you  have  done  one  thing 
That  has  made  gentler  the  churlish  world, 
Though  mankind  pass  you  by, 
And  feed  and  clothe  you  grudgingly — 
Though  the  world  starve  you, 
And  God  answer  not  your  nightly  prayers, 
And  you  grow  old  hungering  still  at  heart, 
And  walk  friendless  in  your  way, 
And  lie  down  at  last  forgotten — 
If  all  this  befall  you  who  have  created  beauty, 
You  shall  still  leave  a  bequest  to  the  world 
Greater  than  institutions  and  rules  and  commerce; 
And  by  the  immutable  law  of  human  heart 
The  God  of  the  universe  is  your  debtor, 
If  you  have  made  gentler  the  churlish  world. 


A  TRADESMAN  AND  A  POET 

O   THESE  things  pay— these   poems   that  you 
write?" 

"Oh!  yes,  so  much  I  am  almost  ashamed 
Of  my  reward,  so  very  great  it  is." 

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The    Crowded    World 

* * * 

"Then  tell  me  why  you  are  so  poorly  dressed?" 
"I  did  not  know  that  I  was  poorly  dressed." 

"Indeed  you  are.    And  think  of  how  you  live. 
You  should  have  blooming  gardens,  houses   grand, 
If  your  reward  is  great  as  you  have  said. 
I  understand  you  live  in  three  small  rooms." 

"And  that  is  two  too  many,  I'm  afraid." 
"You  do  not  travel.     Do  you  travel,  sir?" 

"Oh!  yes,  I  go  each  week  into  the  woods, 
And  often  sit  upon  the  river  bank." 

"You  are  not  loved  by  any  woman,  sir; 
And  have  you  any  children  of  your  own?" 

"I  love  all  women,  every  child  is  mine." 
"Come,  come,  these  poems  do  not  pay,  I  know." 
"Oh!  yes,  they  pay  me  very  well,  indeed." 

"Then  what  have  you  been  doing  with  the  pay 
Received?     Have  you  some  secret   investments?" 

"Yes,  yes!     I  have  some  secret  investments." 
"Oh!  that  is  very  different.    Oh,  yes!" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    FORTUNE 

IF  YOU  are  young,  sympathetic,  poor,  ambitious  and 
honest,  it  were  easier  for  you  if  you  had  died  a  babe 
in  your  mother's  arms. 

For  the  citadels  of  fortune  are  climbed  by  them  that 
ask  no  question  of  right  and  wrong,  and  are  not  much 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


moved  by  the  tender  touch  of  love.  And  this  is  what 
is  called  worldly  wisdom. 

But  you,  if  you  are  poor  and  love  your  fellow-men,  the 
gilded  doorway  of  the  house  of  fortune  is  closed  to 
you;  and  you  will  look  with  moistened  eyes  and  hunger 
in  your  heart  till  the  evening  shadows  of  your  last  day, 
yet  will  it  not  open. 

And  here  is  the  triumph:  to  stand  cheerfully  outside 
and  serve,  though  the  coveted  doorway  open  ever  and 
anon  to  them  of  lesser  virtue;  and  to  grow  old  mean 
while,  with  face  turned  toward  the  golden  west,  watch 
ing  the  last  sunset,  loving,  hoping  and  believing  still; 
and  through  the  shadows  of  the  falling  night,  to  see 
yet  a  few  of  the  faces  of  youth's  old  dreams  still  luring 
us  onward  and  onward. 

After  all,  perhaps  this  is  to  have  entered  the  doorway, 
and  to  have  dwelt  in  the  house  of  fortune. 

AS  I  RETURNED  TO  THE  DIM  OF  MY  STUDY 

YOU  pallid-faced  person  with  the  book  under  your 
arm,  you  with  eyes  that  look  far  away,  and  you 
with  eyes  that  look  in,  sitting  nightly  by  your  lamp — 
You  who  daily  browse  in  libraries  and  dusty  book 
shops—is  it  an  explanation  of  the  cosmic  wheels  you 
seek?  I,  too,  with  rapture  have  searched  in  libraries, 
touching  this  volume,  scanning  that,  and  pondering 
long  over  yet  another. 

Oh!  with  what  a  throbbing  heart  have  I  implored  the 
pages  to  yield  their  wisdom  to  me!  No  speech  can 
explain  the  unworldly  joy  that  was  in  me,  while  I 
pursued  the  thoughts  of  one  the  world  had  dubbed 
an  immortal  seer. 

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And  at  last,  having  mastered  the  thought,  I  cried  to  the 
great  God  in  thanks  for  my  joy.  Had  He  not  made  me 
a  confidant  of  His  wisdom?  Was  I  not  also  now  a 
keeper  of  immortal  truth? 

How  I  have  walked  in  the  sunlight  with  an  air  of 
superior  knowledge,  questioning  the  advantage  of  fur 
ther  study! 

Poor  fool! 

The  awakening — the  terrible  awakening  to  find  that  I 
had  been  dreaming  day  and  night  for  months,  to  find 
that  my  immortal  seer  was  not  the  only  immortal  seer, 
that  he  was  no  seer  at  all,  to  find  that  another  held  the 
secrets  of  God  whispered  from  on  high! 

The  second  cry  of  ecstasy  was  less  joyous,  the  third 
still  less,  the  fourth  still  less,  until  at  last  there  was 
no  more  ecstasy,  distrust  pricking  me  like  a  thorn. 

But  now  I  know  the  greater  wisdom;  for  pursuing  one 
night  the  last  pages  of  the  last  metaphysician  who 
would  teach  me  what  he  knew  not  himself,  I  heard  a 
child  crying  in  the  dark, 

And  I  sought  out  the  child  in  the  dark,  and  carried  it 
on  my  shoulder  to  the  love  from  which  it  had  wandered. 
And  on  my  return,  I  passed  a  house  where  there  was 
laughter,  and  music,  and  dancing; 

And  farther  on,  under  the  light  of  a  lamp,  one  called 
me  by  name,  and  took  my  hand,  and  pressed  it  in  his 
own,  and  spoke  kindly; 

And  as  I  returned  to  my  metaphysician,  in  the  dim 
of  my  study,  I  smiled;  for  I  saw  that  the  thing  I  sought 
was  in  me,  and  in  the  child,  and  in  the  dancers,  and  in 
him  who  took  me  by  the  hand. 
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THE  OLD  MAGNOLIA  TREE 
(A  Tale  of  South  Carolina) 

""V/OU  want  to  see  some  one?"  the  lady  said, 

I  As  an  old,  bent  darky  lifted  up  his  head 
From  out  his  hands;  and  rising  from  the  door, 
Came  slowly  toward  her,  for  she  said  no  more, 
And  stopped  inside  the   gate  to  know  his  will. 
The  spacious  lawn  and  house  within  were  still; 
For   empty   was   the   place,  some  weeks   had  passed, 
Or  maybe  months  and  weeks,  since  tenants  last 
Had  trod  the  rooms  that  now  lay  grim  and  bare. 
Upon  the   lawn  were   trees,  palmetto,  pear, 
And  evergreen,  and  near  the  fence  there  stood 
An  old  magnolia  tree  of  scented  wood; 
Long  years  the  burning  Carolina  sun 
Had  met  its  leaves  where  boys  now  men  had  run. 
Deep  cracked  and  old,  four  mighty  pillars  sent 
Their  tops  to  meet  an  arched  roof  that  bent 
And  leaned.     And  yet  some  recent  art  not  mean 
With   color  made   the   house   look   bright  and   clean. 
"You  want  to  see  some   one?"  the  lady  said, 
The  silvery-haired  old  negro  bowed  his  head, 
And  coming  near  with  salutations  dumb, 
He  finally  replied,  "Ah  does,  yes  um." 
And  bowing  on  with  many  side  steps  slow 
And  questioning  smiles   and  trembling  voice  still  low: 
"Is  you  de  one  dat's  gwine  to  move  into 
Dis  house  dat's  made  so  fine,  please,  Miss,  is  you? 
Ah's  lived  heah  long  'fo'  you  was  born,  ah  guess — 
Please,  Miss,  de  dog  a-tryin'  tear  your  dress. 
Ah's  only  lived  one  place  'cept  jes'  right  heah; 
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Mas'   Hambleton   fetched   me   from   way   down   fan 

Sabannah  rivah — Hambleton — yes  um. 

Ah  watch  de  chores  an*  does  whatevah  come." 

The  lady  was  the  minister's  good  wife, 

But  lately  come  to  guard  the   spiritual  life 

That  parish  held  far  down  the  Congaree, 

In  sunny  Carolina,  'mid  a  sea 

Of  white-capped  cotton  fields  now  fresh   o'errun, 

Immaculate  beneath  the  Southern  sun. 

He  might  stay,  the  lady  said,  and  do  the  chores, 

And  mow  the  lawn,  and  mind  the  outer  doors, 

And   water  flowers,  and  trim  the  trees,  with  all 

There'd  be  enough  until  each  evening's  fall. 

And  so  he  stayed,  this  darky  old,  and  said 

But  little  as  the  burning  days  turned  red 

In  evening's  hour,  and  did  his  work  all  well 

And  kindly,  with  a  mind  that  did  not  dwell 

In  hesitation  on  the  longest  task; 

Nor  for  a  single  half-day's  rest  did  ask, 

As  months  went  on  in  that  hot  Southern  clime, 

Until  again  'twas  cotton  picking  time. 

And  now  the  minister's  good  wife  called  him, 

As  oft,  while  day  at  east  was  growing  dim, 

And  said,  "To-morrow  rake  the  leaves  to  burn, 

For  now  it  is  the  cooler  season's  turn; 

And   I   think,   too,  the  old  magnolia  tree 

You  might  cut  down,  and  then  you  come  to  me; 

And  there  next  spring  we'll  make  a  flower  bed." 

He  smiled  and  bowed,  "Yes  um,  yes  um,"  he  said. 

He  raked  the  lawn  and  raked  and  raked  yet  more, 

Until  it  looked  like  one  vast  velvet  floor; 

But  swung  no  ax  into  that  dying  tree, 

And  sat  beneath  its  limbs  content  and  free 

Till   evening  late,  still  humming  some  old  song, 

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And  thus  a  week  and  days  soon  slipped  along. 

The  minister's  good  wife  called  him  once  more, 

And  standing  in  the  mighty  pillared  door, 

She  said,  "You  haven't  cut  that  tree  down  yet— 

The  old  magnolia  near  the  fence;  don't  let 

Me  see  it  there  this  time  to-morrow  eve"; 

And  with  these   earnest   words   she   turned   to   leave. 

"Please,  Miss,  de  ole  tree  make  a  lot  o'  shade 

When  de  sun  all  day  a-shinin*  hot  an*  raid." 

"Oh — no,  I  think  not  much;  fell  it  to-morrow." 

"Yes  um,"  he  said,  as  if  his  heart  knew  sorrow. 

To-morrows   and   to-morrows  quickly  came, 

The  old  magnolia  tree  still  stood  the  same. 

Once  it  was  an  ax  he  lacked,  and  then 

His  back  was  feeble,  and  he  asked  again 

A  few  days  yet  to  do  the  task,  and  said, 

As  before,  "Yes  um,"  and  humbly  bowed  his  head. 

And   so   the   torrid   Southern  summer  passed, 

And  solemn,  cooler  evenings  came  at  last; 

And  now  the  good  wife's  o'ertaxed  patience  failed, 

And  once  again  the  old  negro  she  hailed, 

And  once  again  demanded — would  he  fell 

The  tree,  or  would  he  then  and  there  dare  tell 

That  this  command  he  had  no  mind  to  heed, 

"It's  but  an  old  o'ergrown  and  dying  weed, 

I'll  have  it  cut;  if  you  have  not  the  will 

Or  strength  for  it,  there  are  some  others  still. 

I'll  have  it  down — to-morrow — by  this  hour!" 

With  these  sharp  words  his  form  began  to  cower, 

And  o'er  his  face  now  old  with  years  of  life 

There  spread  the  signs  of  grieving,  inward  strife. 

"Well,  well,  and  what  reply  have  you?"  she   said; 

The  old  black  man  raised  up  his  silvery  head, 

And  turned  his  kindly  eyes  upon  her  face, 

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Where  shone  the  power  of  that  other  race. 

"Don'  talk  like  dat,"  and  then  he  paused  until 

His  timid  heart  was  mastered  by  his  will. 

"Dem  buds  now  turnin'  white  an'  bloomin',  Miss; 

An*  when  de  wind  it  tetch  'em  wid  a  kiss, 

Dey  smell  so  sweet.     Ah's  seed  'em  bloom  up  dah 

Along  'fo'  you  was  born  or  come  down  heah." 

She  tossed  her  head  and  with  a  woman's  frown, 

"To-morrow  morn,  I  say,  it  shall  be  down!" 

"No,  Miss,  ma  good  ole  Missus  she  done  plan' 

Dat  tree  when  de  war  was  los',  an  ah— ah  can* 

Cut  ut  down.    Young  Mas'  he  nevah  love  young  Missus 

At  furse,  she  jes'  a-grievin'  for  his  kisses. 

Bofe  pa'nts  say  dey  should  marry,  an*  dey  did. 

Sometimes  young  Mas'  to  Cha'leston  goes   an*  hid 

Fu'  days,  an'  half  de  niggers  sta'ts  to  hunt, 

An'  den  he  talks  to  Miss  so  cross  an'  blunt 

When  he  comes  back,  po'  Miss  she  cry  and  cry, 

An*  den  get  sick  till  Mas'  afeared  she  die." 

Impatient  with  his   tale   of   times   far  gone, 

The  woman  raised  her  hand,  yet  he  went  on. 

"But  when  de  baby   Mary  come,  young  Mas' 

He  change  an*  love  young  Miss  and  hole  her  fas' 

In  bofe  his  ahms  an'  kiss  her  evah  day, 

An'  kiss  de  lid'le  baby,  too,  an*  say 

He  nevah,  nevah  know  what  babies  for — 

Dat — dat  was  'fo'  de  war — 'fo'  de  war. 

An'  ole  Mas',  too,  an*  good  ole  Missus  bofe, 

Dey  laugh  an'  cry  wid  joy  fu'  days,  and  loaf 

'Round  young  Mas'  house,  an'  quarrel  wid  Ann  de  nurse, 

'Cause  each  one  wan'  to  hole  de  baby  furse; 

An'  jump  around  wid  ut  an'  laugh  and  dance — 

Ole  Mas'  an'  Missus  dem — dem  young  Mas'  pa'nts. 

Den  d'rectly  say  de  war  a-gwine  come  on, 

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Ole  Mas'  an'  young  Mas'  bofe  to  Cha'leston  gone, 

A-sayin',  'You  take  kyar  ma  babe  and  Miss,' 

An*  ride  away,  an*  from  dat  day  to  dis 

Ah   ain't  seed  him  no  mo',  but  ole   Mas'  he 

Come  back,  a  bullet  hole  shot  fru  his  knee; 

An'  mos'  de  heartless  niggers  runs  away 

An'  leave  Miss  an'  de  baby,  but  ah  stay. 

De  lid'le  baby  Mary,  she  grow  fas', 

An'  'fo'  we  know  free  summahs  dey  done  pass, 

An'  den  one  night  de  wind  blow  fierce  and  loud. 

Dey  say  de  blue-coats  heah,  a  mighty  crowd, 

Gen'  Sherman's  ahmy  come  from  up  de  sea; 

De  cannons  roar,  de  houses  burn,  and  we — 

We  scared  to  deaf — de  niggers,  whites,  an'  all; 

In  fron'  de  house  we  hear  de  devils  call, 

A-sayin',  'Bu'n  ut  down  and  dem  inside!' 

De  barns  a-smokin'   whah   de   niggers   hide, 

De  sky  all  raid  wid  flames  like  blood — de  shrieks 

De  women  folks  a-makin*  as  dey  seeks 

To  hide — de  white  an'  black,  no  dif'ence  now! 

De  babe  she  lay  on   Miss's  breast,  her  brow 

A-burnin'  wid  de  fevah.    Now  dey  come, 

Like  mad  men  drunk  fu'  human  blood,  an'  some 

A-wavin'  torches  run   inside   de   gate, 

Ah  jumps  clean  fru  de  window,  an'  says,  'Wait! 

Dah's  a  babe  inside  dat's  sick  an'  nigh  to  deaf!' 

Seem  like  dat  crowd  of  blue-coats  hole  dah  breaf, 

Some  come  a-runnin'  'round  whah  ah  was  sayin' 

Ut  ovah — ovah  'g'in  while  dey  was  stayin'. 

One  shouts,  'We  gwine  set  all  you  niggers  free!' 

Ah  shouts,  'Ah  is,  you  needn'  stay  fu'  me!' 

Den  on  ma  head  a  knock — ag'in — once  mo', 

Ah  reels,  a-stagg'rin'  retch  out  fu'  de  do', 

An'  drap  right  down  and  hears  ma  Massa  say, 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


'Take  kyar  ma  babe  an*  Miss/  an'  ride  away. 

One  beside  de  captain  shouts,  'De  house!  de  house!' 

'Stan*  back!'  he  say,  an'  dey  was  still  as  a  mouse. 

An'  as  ah  turn,  dah  in  de  torches'  light, 

Stan*  Miss  an'  de  babe,  like  angels  dressed  in  white; 

An'  de  sound  of  marchin'  seem  to  die  away, 

An'   da'kness  come  a-fallin'  whah   ah  lay, 

An'  seem  like  summah  time  a-long  ago, 

An'  winds  a-blowin'  fru  de  trees  so  low, 

Like  fa'  off  music  from  de  crooked  lane 

Whah   cabins  stand  along  de  fields  o'  cane, 

And  whah  de  niggers  dance  an'  sing  an'  sing 

Till  stars  a-wavin'  an'  de  valleys  ring. 

Ah  soon  wakes  up,  but  de  babe  she  gone  to  res' 

Dat  winter  night,  asleep  on  Miss's  breas'. 

We  bury  her  one  morn,  young  Miss  an'  me, 

Dah  by  de  fence  whah  she  could  always  see 

De  place  her  baby  Mary  sleep  so  still. 

An'  when  de  springtime  come  ah  makes  a  hill 

Besides  de  grabe;  an'  Miss,  so  po'  an'  white, 

She  drap  a  seed,  den  fol'  her  hands  up  tight, 

An'  raise  her  eyes  to  de  evenin'  sky,  an'  pray 

To  herself-like,  den  aloud  an'  slow  she  say, 

'Lawd,  bring  fort*  de  tender  leaf  from  out  de  ground, 

An'  let  de  years  spread  branches  fa'  around, 

An'  let  de  tree  live  on  in  place  de  dead.' 

She  drap  her  hands,  an'  dat  was  all  she  said. 

De  years  dey  come,  an'  creepin'  past  dey  go, 

An'  from  de  seed  dat  same  magnolia  grow. 

Young  Miss  she  soon  turn  ole  an'  put  away; 

Ah  only  an'  dat  tree  is  heah  to  stay. 

Sometimes  it  seem  to  talk;  an'  evah  breeze 

At  night  finds  dis  ole  body  on  uts  knees, 

An'  dah  de  sound  of  whisp'rin'  leaves  above 

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Seem  like  de  voices  ole  of  dem  ah  love; 

An*  evah  mornin'  'fo'  you's  up  ah  hears 

De  warbler  sing  so  sweet  it  fetch  de  tears; 

An*  in  de  risin'  sunlight  of  ah  see 

Young  Miss  an'  de  babe  sit  dah  beneaf  dat  tree, 

An*  thinks  ah  hear  young  Mas'  a-callin*  say, 

'Take  kyar  ma  babe  and  Miss!'  and  ride  away." 


JEFF 
(The  Story  of  a  Horse) 

A    SOUTHERN   city   on   an   autumn   day — 
.TiLTen  years  and  more  the  war  had  passed  away- 
A  street  where  men  and  loaded  wagons  stand; 
And  coming  slowly   through   that   street   of  sand 
A  load  of  wood  drawn  by  a  horse  that's  lean 
And  old.     The  driver  with  a  savage  mien 
Now  swiftly  lashes  him,  again,  again; 
He  sways  as  struggling   for  his   life,  and  then 
An  aged  darky  standing   by  cries   out, 
"You  stop,  white  gem'man;  Lawd,  what  you  about! 
Dat  po'  ole  hoss,  he  ain'  done  you  no  harm." 
The  angered  driver  grasps  the  negro's  arm. 

Let  go  ma  wrist;  don'  pull  dat  way; 
You  crack  ma  bones — let  go,  ah  say! 
'Cause  don'  you  see  ma  head  is  white, 
An'  ah  ain'  got  no  strength  to  fight 
White  gem'man;  now  ah  say  let  go! 
Ah  tol'  you  not  to  whip  him  so. 
Ah  seed  you  do  ut  of  befo', 
A-standin'  in  ma  cabin  do', 
Until  ah  is  dat  ole  hoss  Jeff, 
IS3 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


An'  all  de  sense  ah  got  done  lef 

Ma  head.     White  gem'man,  you  can*  blame 

Ole  Jeff,  'cause  he  is  po'  an'  lame; 

An'  he  can'  pull  like  young  hoss  kin, 

His  ribs  a-stickin'  fru  his  skin. 

What!     Does  ah  know  dat  boss's  name? 

As  sho'  as  ef  mine  was  de  same. 

A  heap  o'  times  ah  strides  his  back, 

Long  'fo'  he  knowd  de  cruel  whip's  crack, 

An'  of  ah  rub  him  till  he  shine 

Wid  dapples  like  a  melon  rin'. 

Dat's    ma    ole    Massa's    hoss — dat's   Jeff. 

De  war  begin',  ole  Mas'  he  lef; 

De  bugles  call,  de  drums  roll  on; 

Ole   Missus  cry;  an'  dey  bofe  gone, 

Ole  Mas'  an'  Jeff  a-carryin'  him; 

Ah  watch  'em  till  ma  eyes  grow  dim. 

Den  months  go  by.     One  day  at  las' 

We  gits  a  letter  dat  was  pass* 

Along  de  line  and  give  to  me, 

A-sayin'   dat   ole   Massa   he 

Is  gwine  to  'rive  not  fa'  away, 

An'  dat  fu'  me  to  come  an'  stay 

Wid  him,  an'  ride  as  fas'  ah  kin, 

Jes'  like  a  race  hoss  gwine  to  win. 

De  letter  make  po'  Missus  cry. 

Dat's  all  it  say,  'cept  jes'  "Good-bye." 

Po'  Missus  fearin'  dat  he  lay 

Wid  fevah,  sent  me  off  dat  day; 

A-sayin',  "Go,  now  go  as  fas' 

As  wind,  till  you  fin'  him  at  las', 

An'  stay  until  de  war  is  fru; 

Don'  come  back  'lone,  ah  say  to  you!" 

Away  till  da'k,  an'  nevah  slow, 

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-> 


Ah  ride  an'  ride  like  winds  dat  blow; 

An*  on  agin  at  breakin'  day, 

Ah  nevah  stops  'cept  to  find  de  way, 

An*  'cept  when  white  boys  calls  to  as', 

"Say,  niggah,  whah  you  ridin'  so  fas'?" 

Ah  tells  'em,  den  ah  gallops  on 

Till  da'kness  come  an'  daylight  gone. 

De  evenin'  of  de  second  day 

Ah  finds  de  place  ole  Massa  say; 

But  nomn  dar  'cept  jes'  de  light 

Of  stars  a-winkin'  in  de  night. 

Folks  say  de  army  norfward  gone; 

Ah  takes  de  road  at  breakin'  dawn, 

An'  swings  de  reins  an'  lets  'er  go; 

Dat  hoss  do  somehow  surely  know 

Ole  Massa  sent  fu'  us  to  come. 

We  pass  de  fiel's  an'  houses,  some 

Whah  lights  a-gleamin'  seem  to  say, 

"Ride  fas'  'cause  soon  anothah  day 

Is  heah  an'  you  ain'  foun'  ole  Massa!" 

Ah  tells  dat  hoss  an'  he  go  fassa. 

Den  soon  he  stop,  fro  up  his  ears; 

De  furse  time  in  ma  life  ah  hears 

De   stranges'  kind  o'  poppin'   soun'. 

Ah  swings  de  reins  an'  de  noise  is  drown'; 

But  as  ah  gallop  all  de  while 

De   soun'   gits  loudah  evah   mile, 

Jes'  pop  an'  crack  an'  crash  an'  pop, 

Seems  like  ut  nevah  gwine  to  stop. 

Ah  hears  de  cannons  roar  an'  groan, 

A  terrible  loud  an'  mockin'  moan; 

Ah  sees  de  smoke  rise  to  de  sky, 

An*  hears  de  bullets  whistlin'  by; 

Ah  pass  some  men  a-runnin*  roun* 

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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


Attendin'  wounded  on  de  groun'. 
An'  den  ah  'quired,  but  none  can  tell 
Me  whah  Mas'  is.    Ah's  feared  he  fell 
'Fo'  now,  an'  lay  among  de  dead; 
'Cause  whah  ah  as'  dey  shakes  dar  head. 
Ah  mounts  a  hill,  an'  plain  as  day 
Ah  sees  de  bluecoats  an'  de  gray. 
Ah  looks  fu'  Massa  dar  below, 
Whah  human  bodies  seem  to  flow 
In  smoke  an'  flame;  an'  noise  like  dat 
Ah  nevah  hears.     Some  fallin'  flat 
An*  don'  git  up;  de  livin'  runs 
O'er  dead  an'  bleedin',  shootin'  guns; 
An'  bullets  singin'  songs  of  deaf 
Nigh  takes  away  ma  stagger'n  breaf. 
Dar  somewhah  in  dat  hell  ah  knows 
Ole  Massa  is  among  de  foes. 
De  lines  dey  swing  an'  reel  an'  swing, 
De  cannons  groan,  de  bullets  sing; 
An*  now  de  graycoats  fallin'  back, 
Dar  flag  drap  down,  an'  in  dar  track 
De  bluecoats  press  like  flames  o'  hell 
Right  o'er  de  backs  of  dem  dat  fell. 
An'  now  de  graycoats  turn  an'  rally; 
An'  down  de  middle  of  de  valley, 
A  big  white  hoss  like  sto'm  winds  sail, 
Right  whah  de  whizzin'  bullets  hail 
In  fron'  dat  flame-line*  road  to  deaf- 
It's   Massa  on  de  white  hoss  Jeff! 
He  lifts  de  flag  an'  sta'ts  ahead 
Into  dat  wall  of  fire  an'  lead. 
De  graycoats  follow  wid  a  yell; 
An'  all  de  roarin'  seem  like  hell 
Broke  fru  de  groun';  an'  in  de  smoke 

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Dat's  red  wid  flame,  at  evah  stroke 
Dat  white  boss  Jeff  crowd  on  an*  on. 
He  drap  to  his  knees,  an'  up  an*  gone, 
Again  he  drap,  an'  rise  de  same. 
An*  now  behin'  a  wall  of  flame 
Seem  like  a  million  bluecoats  come. 
De  gray  a-drappin'  dead  an*  dumb, 
On  evah  side  dey  fallin'  back, 
A-leavin'  wounded  in  dar  track; 
De  bluecoats  charge  like  a  hurricane 
Right  o'er  de  wounded  an*  de  slain. 
An'  in  dat  bloody  roar  of  deaf 
Ole  Massa  wheels  around  dat  Jeff 
To  save  his  life,  'cause  all  is  los'. 
An'  evah  ridah  on  his  hoss 
Comes  up  de  hill  pas'  whah  ah  is, 
As  'roun'  ma  ears  de  bullets  whiz. 
Ah  mounts  ma  hoss  an'  lets  'im  go; 
An'  as  ah  look  aroun'  jes'  so, 
Here  comes  dat  Jeff  an'  ma  ole  Massa. 
Ah  nevah  sees  a  hoss  go  fassa, 
A-leapin',  plungin'  as  he  gone, 
Jes'  pas'  ma  side,  an'  on  an'  on. 
Ah  spurs  ma  hoss  in  dat  ride  o'  deaf, 
To  keep  ma  eyes  on  Mass  an'  Jeff, 
Ole  Missus'    words,  "Stay  by  his  side," 
Ring  in  ma  ear  as  on  ah  ride. 
An'  fru  dat  fores'  we  jes'  fly, 
An*  some  a-drappin'  off  to  die; 
Dar  bruisin',  grindin'  deaf  to  meet 
Beneaf  de  bluecoat's  hosses'  feet. 
O'  fiel's  an'  fence  an'  log  an'  lane 
Whah  cotton  grows  an'  sugar-cane, 
'Neaf  trees  we  dodge  each  bendin'  limb, 
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As  fas'   ah  rides,  ma  eyes  on  him 
An*  dat  hoss  Jeff,  an*  on  an'  on; 
Ah  looks  ag'in  an*  dey  bofe  gone. 
Dar  ain'  no  time  to  stop  an'  fin' 
Ole  Mass  an'  Jeff,  'cause  jes'  behin* 
De  bluecoats  comin'  like  a  cloud 
Of  flyin*  flame  an'  smoke;  an'  loud 
De  raspin'  rattle  pain  ma  soul 
Fu  Jeff  an'   Massa,  gray  an'  ole. 
Ah  turns  an'  turns,  but  don'  see  him 
An'  Jeff  no  mo,'  ma  sight  grow  dim. 
A  crack — ma  arm — ah  knows  ah's  hit! 
Ah  staggers  some,  but  tight  ah  sit 
An'  spurs;  fu'  miles  dey  po'  de  lead 
Into  our  back  an'  side  an'  head. 
Ah  turns  to  lef  an'  down  a  hill, 
An*  hides  ma  hoss  inside  a  mill; 
Den  waits,  an'  hears  de  awful  cry 
Of  all  de  bluecoats  ridin'  by. 
What  ef  dey  stop,  ah  holds  ma  breaf; 
Still  on  dey  come  in  dat  ride  o'  deaf, 
But  dey  don'  stop,  an'  all  grow  still 
'Cept  poppin'  sounds  fa'  down  de  hill. 
An'  now  an'  den  some  stragglers  pass, 
Until  ah  surely  finks  de  las' 
One  gone;  an'  slowly  as  de  day 
Seem  like  it  stealin'  fa'  away, 
An*  from  de  sky  de  da'kness  fall, 
A-spreadin*  stillness  ovah  all, 
'Cept  jes'  a  mou'nful  evenin'  breeze, 
Ah  guides  ma  hoss  back  fru  de  trees; 
Ole  Missus'    words,    as    on    ah   ride, 
Ring  in  ma  ears,  "Stay  by  his  side — 
Stay  by  him  till  de  war  is  fru, 

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Don*  come  back  'lone,  ah  say  to  you." 
An*  many  times  on  bended  knee 
Each  dead  man's  face  ah  search  to  see 
If  it  ma  Massa;  till  de  light 
Of  day  all  gone,  an'  lonesome  night 
Spread  o'er  de  groun'  an'  trees  about. 
An'  aftah  while  de  stars  come  out 
All  still,  jes'  like  dat  dey  look  down, 
An'  look  an'  look  upon  de  groun', 
Whah  many  lays  dat  long  ago 
In  playful  childhood  use'  to  know 
Some  tendah  arms  dat  held  'em  tight 
An'  lips  dat  pressed  dar  own  each  night. 
Ma  hoss  he  stumble  'long  de  way. 
Den  jes'  dat  sudden-like  he  neigh, 
An'  neigh  ag'in!  den  evahthing 
All  still  'cept  jes'  de  wind  dat  sing. 
He  stop  an*  prick  his  ears  up  high; 
Seem   like   something  is   standin'   nigh — 
A-standin'  jes'  along  our  way. 
Anothah  hoss  begins  to  neigh. 
Ah  sees  dat  we  ain*  all  alone, 
Ma  hoss  a-standin'  still  like  stone. 
Den  gives  a  lunge  an'  plunge  an'  boun', 
An'  quick  as  dat  drags  me  aroun' 
De  trees  an'  logs,  like  he  ma  boss, 
An'  stops  in  fron'  dat  othah  hoss. 
Dat  othah  hoss  don'  make  no  soun'; 
His  rider  flat  upon  de  groun', 
De  stirrup  holdin*  one  foot  fas', 
De  othah  lyin'  in  de  grass. 
Ah  strikes  a  match — ah  holds  ma  breaf — 
It's  Massa  an'  de  white  hoss  Jeff! 
Old  Massa's  face  like  wax  so  white. 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


Ah  loads  him  on  dat  hoss,  an'  tight 
Ah  ties  him  'cross  his  back;  den  step 
By  step  all  fru  dat  woods  we  crep', 
Jes'  like  a  funeral  in  de  da'k. 
De  stars  look  down  as  if  to  ha'k 
Ag'in  an*  see  what  we  about. 
Long  time  pass,  den  de  sun  come  out 
An*  spread  de  daylight  all  'roun', 
As  on  an*  on  we  homeward  boun*. 
Ole  Missus  nearly  die.     Ole  Mass 
He  laid  away.    De  war  gone  pas*, 
An*  men  don'  kill  each  othah,  an* 
Jes'  poverty  is  in  de  Ian*. 
Ole  Missus  she  done  sell  nigh  all 
We  got  'cept  Jeff.    An  den  one  fall 
She  sell  him,  too;  but  ah  done  keeps 
Ma  eyes  on  him  dat  of'en  weeps 
When  some  his  owners  treats  him  bad; 
An'  when  dey  treats'  him  good  ah's  glad 
Jes'  like  a  chil'.     See  heah,  kin'  man, 
Dat  Jeff  hoss  done  got  ole;  he  can' 
Do  much  mo'  work.    Ah  give  you  dis 
Heah  watch  fu'  him;  an'  you  won'  miss 
Him  none.     You  will?  an'  it's  a  trade? 
Lawd,  it's  de  bes'  ah  evah  made! 
Same  as  you  loves  your  chil'  or  wife, 
Ah  loves  dat  hoss  jes'  like  ma  life. 
Dey  all  done  gone  away,  you  see, 
'Cept  jes'  us  two,  ole  Jeff  an'  me. 
An'  ah  ain'  nevah  done  agwine 
To  part  from  him  no  mo*.    He  mine, 
Ah  his,  an*  we  bofe  ole  an'  bent; 
'Fo'  long  we  gwine  whah  Massa  went. 


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He  led  his  horse  away,  and  sidewise  stepped 
And  smiled,  so  happy  that  he  almost  wept. 
That  night  he  fed  him  such  a  meal  as  fit 
The  horses  of  a  king,  and  long  did  sit 
By  him  and  talk  of  good  old  times  gone  past, 
And  always  of  the  master  first  and  last; 
And  soon  he  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep,  and  then 
Within  his  dreams  he  lived  his  life  again. 


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A    PRAYER 

I  ET  me  do  my  work  each  day;  and  if  the  darkened 
I  jhours  of  despair  overcome  me,  may  I  not  forget 
the  strength  that  comforted  me  in  the  desolation  of 
other  times.  May  I  still  remember  the  bright  hours 
that  found  me  walking  over  the  silent  hills  of  my  child 
hood,  or  dreaming  on  the  margin  of  the  quiet  river, 
when  a  light  glowed  within  me,  and  I  promised  my 
early  God  to  have  courage  amid  the  tempests  of  the 
changing  years.  Spare  me  from  bitterness  and  from 
the  sharp  passions  of  unguarded  moments.  May  I  not 
forget  that  poverty  and  riches  are  of  the  spirit.  Though 
the  world  know  me  not,  may  my  thoughts  and  actions 
be  such  as  shall  keep  me  friendly  with  myself.  Lift 
my  eyes  from  the  earth,  and  let  me  not  forget  the 
uses  of  the  stars.  Forbid  that  I  should  judge  others, 
lest  I  condemn  myself.  Let  me  not  follow  the  clamor 
of  the  world,  but  walk  calmly  in  my  path.  Give  me 
a  few  friends  who  will  love  me  for  what  I  am;  and 
keep  ever  burning  before  my  vagrant  steps  the  kindly 
light  of  hope.  And  though  age  and  infirmity  overtake 
me,  and  I  come  not  within  sight  of  the  castle  of  my 
dreams,  teach  me  still  to  be  thankful  for  life,  and  for 
time's  olden  memories  that  are  good  and  sweet;  and 
may  the  evening's  twilight  find  me  gentle  stilL 

AN    ARTIST'S   PRAYER 

LORD  God,  Thou  who  dost  paint  with  magic  touch 
The  curtains  of  the  soft  and  silent  night, 
This  gift  I  ask,  that  o'er  whatever  cloth 
My  brush  may  glide,  now  to  and  fro  and  round, 
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The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


There  will  come  that  which  ever  pleases  Thee; 

For  surely  Thou  dost  love  the  good  of  men. 

Help  me  to  make  the  things  that  beauty  hold 

Amid  these  veering  lines  and  diverse  shades, 

That  cheer  will  bring  to  sad  and  solemn  men 

And  tired  women  in  their  dreary  haunts, 

That  youth  will  not  forget  on  highways  hard 

With  troubled  years,  when  somber  night  is  on, 

And  when  no  kindly  light  leads  through  the  way, 

That  joy  and  love  may  dawn  like  newborn   days 

In  hearts  where  long  the  chambers  have  been  dark. 

Let  lowly  life  and  dusty  daily  toil 

Come  near  me  evermore  and  day  by  day, 

That  I  forget  not  them  that  still  are  kind 

Though  tried  by  years  of  unrequited  toil, 

Alas!  and  sometimes  want  and  age  and  pain. 

Let  me  not  love  my  pictures  more  than  men, 

Nor  follow  the  wild  lead  of  some  mad  dream, 

Nor  see  myself  as  if  above  the  crowd 

Commanding  that  they  all  bow  low  their  heads; 

Instead,   with  kindly  heart  and  gentle  hand 

And  smiles  upon  my  face,  let  me  serve  them 

Whose   muscles   ache   in   evening's   twilight   hour, 

While  mine  in  comfort  still  are  fresh  and  strong. 

May  all  these  be  not  empty,  idle  words, 

But  all  the  burden  of  my  life's  sweet  task. 

And  when  Thou  seest   that  my  work  is  done, 

Let  me  feel  Thy  soft  evening  shadows  fall, 

As  when  I  climbed  into  my  nursery  bed 

With  childish  faith,  in  time's  old  long  ago; 

And  let  the  kiss  of  peace  lie  on  my  lips. 


166 


AN   EASTER   PRAYER 


RESURRECT  Thou  the  dreams  and  songs  and  love 
JTvthat  enchanted  the  garden  of  my  youth,  filled  with 
the  joys  of  a  thousand  hopes  in  the  still  morning's 
twilight,  and  dawning  visions  in  the  shadowed,  starry 
night.  As  the  kindly  earth  yields  forth  each  spring  her 
budding  brood,  so  in  the  barren  winter  of  my  heart 
may  there  bloom  again  the  rose  of  sweet  content. 

O'er  the  din  of  the  world  and  the  strife  of  men,  let 
rise  the  symphonies  of  eternal  peace.  Resurrect  them 
that  slumber  in  graves  of  gold;  and  deliver  humanity 
from  those  cruel  conventions  that  are  but  the  husks 
of  virtue.  Make  kindness  king,  and  teach  us  that  good 
deeds  are  greater  than  philosophy.  To  tired  men  that 
daily  tread  the  crowded  streets,  give  Thou  a  place  of 
sweet  repose  at  night;  and  fill  with  love  the  hearts 
of  lonely  women.  Bring  forth  sweet  babes  from  out 
the  arms  of  each,  to  light  with  joy  the  byways  of  the 
earth. 

Thou  great  God,  uphold  me  also  in  the  lonely  hour; 
and  though  I  fall  in  the  din  and  the  dust  of  the  world, 
resurrect  Thou  me.  Even  to  the  last,  turn  my  hands 
to  kindly  service,  and  part  my  lips  in  gleeful  songs 
of  love.  And  in  the  softly  falling  dark,  when  all  grows 
strangely  still,  may  I  be  glad  to  have  trod  the  sweet 
green  earth,  and  known  the  tender  touch  of  love.  Yet 
may  I  depart  with  joy,  as  one  who  journeys  home  at 
evening. 


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* * * 

A    PRAYER    OF    SUMMER 

O  WORLD  of  green  and  shafts  of  golden  sun;  of 
nightly,  silent,  silver  moonlight;  and  the  strange 
songs  of  lisping  winds!  O  time  of  dreams,  and  trysts, 
and  olden  memories  come  to  life!  Sweet  summer,  may 
I  sing  as  thou,  for  every  leaf  of  thine  is  pregnant  with 
music  in  the  soft  winds,  and  every  rose  inspires  the 
tenderness  of  song.  I  yield  myself  to  the  thousand  en 
chantments  of  sky  and  field  and  wood,  and  play  again 
like  a  child  on  the  soft  green  of  the  earth.  And  as  the 
God  of  the  universe  has  made  thee  to  bloom  in  tender 
ness,  so  also  may  my  heart  be  softened,  and  the 
gardens  of  my  life  be  made  to  bloom  again. 

EVENING    SONG 

GIVE  me  to  gladly  go 
My  way 
And  say 

No  word  of  mine  own  woe; 
But  let  me  smile   each   day. 

Give  me  the  strength  to  do 

My  task 

I  ask; 
And  that  I  shall  not  rue 

The   toiler's   grimy  mask. 

Give  one  loved  hand  to  me, 

And  leave 

The  eve 
All  undisturbed  as  we 

Our  strength  of  souls  retrieve. 

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And  lastly  give  sweet  sleep, 

Closed  sight, 

No  fright 
That  fears  will  o'er  me  creep; 

And  now  a  sweet  good-night. 


AN    AUTUMN    PRAYER 

NOW  the  great  green  earth  has  turned  to  gold;  and 
the  fruit  is  gathered,  and  the  grain  is  garnered. 
So  may  we  in  the  autumn  of  life,  mellowed  by  experi 
ence,  grow  rich  in  beauty  and  service,  as  the  green 
of  the  earth  and  the  grain  of  the  field. 


SHIPS   RETURNING   HOME 

WE  ARE  all  ships  returning  home  laden  with  life's 
experience,  memories  of  work,  good  times  and 
sorrows,  each  with  his  especial  cargo; 

And  it  is  our  common  lot  to  show  the  marks  of  the 
voyage,  here  a  shattered  prow,  there  a  patched  rigging, 
and  every  hulk  turned  black  by  the  unceasing  batter 
of  the  restless  wave. 

May  we  be  thankful  for  fair  weather  and  smooth  seas, 
and  in  times  of  storm  have  the  courage  and  patience 
that  mark  every  good  mariner; 

And,  over  all,  may  we  have  the  cheering  hope  of  joyful 
meetings,  as  our  ship  at  last  drops  anchor  in  the  still 
water  of  the  eternal  harbor. 
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THOU  WHOM  WE  CALL  GOD 

LONG  has  been  the  time  since  I  spoke  with  thee, 
Thou  whom  we  call  God.  Now  I  soften  the  stern 
face  I  carry  upon  the  street  as  a  weapon  in  the  struggle 
for  existence,  and  I  cast  out  of  myself  all  the  evil  of 
the  world,  all  possession,  all  malice;  and  I  yield  up 
my  soul,  as  a  flower  lifts  its  petals  in  the  twilight  of 
morning.  Unbind  me  from  the  things  of  the  earth, 
and  let  me  wander  through  the  world  like  the  still 
stars  of  the  night.  Come  Thou  near  to  me,  as  in  the 
olden  days  when  I  saw  Thee  everywhere,  in  the  woods 
and  the  sky,  and  heard  Thy  voice  in  the  silence  of  the 
fields.  Take  my  hand  and  lead  me  as  my  earthly  father 
when  my  steps  were  feeble.  Warm  me  as  a  mother 
warms  her  child  close  to  her  bosom.  Teach  me  again 
to  love,  and  make  soft  my  voice  with  gentle  words. 
As  a  gardener  waters  his  garden,  refresh  Thou  my 
soul  with  tenderness,  and  bring  peace  within  the 
troubled  household  of  my  heart.  Knock  at  my  door 
in  the  dead  and  lonesome  night;  and  as  I  have  need 
of  Thee,  send  Thou  me  forth  to  others  who  sit  with 
drooping  faces  at  the  table  of  despair  and  see  Thee 
not.  This  prayer  is  born  of  my  need;  and  if  indeed 
men  convince  me  that  Thou  art  not,  and  that  these 
words  are  spoken  but  to  die  unheard,  yet  have  I  been 
answered,  and  shall  believe  that  Thou  art— Thou  whom 
we  call  God. 

A  WINTER  PRAYER 

COLD  lies  the  lifeless  earth,  the  birds  are  gone, 
and    through    the    naked    trees    the    shrill    wind 
whistles.    Though  the  world  outside  be  chill  and  dead, 

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may  the  world  within  us  resound  with  gleeful  songs, 
and  the  chambers  of  our  hearts  be  warm  with  hope 
and  love.  And  may  many  an  evening's  merriment, 
beside  the  hearthstone's  cheerful  glow,  make  sweet 
the  passing  time. 


THE   LAST   PRAYER 

I  AM  weary  lying  here  so  long.  Many  things  that 
once  I  thought  important  do  not  seem  so  now.  If 
this  is  the  end  of  earth  for  me,  I  pray  I  shall  have  a 
last  conscious  moment,  in  which  I  may  gladly  remem 
ber  that,  in  the  days  of  my  strength,  I  had  had  the 
courage  now  and  then  to  raise  my  voice  for  the  right 
as  I  saw  it;  that  amid  the  struggles  for  the  necessities 
of  existence  I  had  had  time  to  record  a  few  moments 
of  spiritual  ecstasy;  and  that  in  the  stern  ways  of  life 
I  had  known  a  little  of  the  tenderness  of  a  woman's  love. 
May  these  things  abide  with  me;  and  if  in  the  infinite 
universe  I  retain  aught  of  my  earthly  self,  may  they 
remind  me  that  in  my  feeble  way  I  was  one  who  tried — 
a  lovely  memory  out  of  the  beautiful  earth.  Then 
closing  my  eyes — consciousness  slowly  dwindling  like 
a  day  that  is  spent — let  me  fall  quietly  asleep,  a  tired 
child  at  sundown.  Peace. 


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* *  » 


PRELUDE 

1AM  not  making  a  book  that  will  live  or  a  book  that 
will  die.     I  have  no   thought  whether  it  will   live 
or  die. 

I  am  for  my  own  sake  manifesting  myself,  looking  at 
myself,  encouraging  and  criticising  myself. 
I  see  you  as  you  pass  on  the  street,  but  I  do  not  see 
the  inner  chamber  where  you  live — the  many  colored 
chamber  of  the  soul. 

I  think  I  must  be  taking  an  inventory  of  the  chamber 
of  my  soul,  cataloguing  its  contents. 

Many  items  I  do  not  set  down,  for  I  have  not  yet  full 
courage;  if  I  set  down  aught  in  shame,  it  will  not  be  in 
defiance  or  bravado;  it  will  be  to  satisfy  my  honesty. 

But  most  of  all  would  I  catalogue  the  love  of  my 
soul;  for  I  do  not  know  but  that  after  a  while  I  may 
be  hard  and  dead  within.  Therefore  I  think  it  well 
that  I  make  a  record  of  the  love  of  my  soul — 

A  record  that  may  soften  a  little  the  stern  world,  and 
abide  with  me  until  the  evening,  when;  I  am  worn  out, 
and  the  world  is  discharging  me  from  service;  the 
sun  gone  down,  darkness  come,  and  I  sit  still  in  the 
quiet  night. 


MY  NATIVE   CITY 
I 

LONG  walk.    Tired  and  contented.    I  have  been 
dreaming  again.    My  walk  led  me  upon  a  hill  to 

the  southeast.    When  at  the  top,  I  turned  to  see  some 

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cattle  grazing  on  the  wayside — and  behold!  my  native 
city  lay  at  my  feet. 

How  silent,  how  small,  how  secluded!  Like  a  new 
toy  in  the  grass,  or  a  nest  tucked  away  among  the  trees 
of  the  surrounding  valley;  or — save  for  the  lines  of 
smoke  moving  slowly  to  the  north — like  a  picture  hang 
ing  in  a  gallery. 

No  one  was  near  me,  and  only  a  few  farmhouses  stood 
in  the  distance.  And  I  thought  and  dreamed  of  the 
wanderings  of  men  amid  the  toy-town  in  the  grass, 
of  the  desires  and  hopes  that  had  come  and  passed  in 
this  nest  among  the  trees. 

I  thought  of  my  own  wanderings,  and  remembered 
some  sleepless  hours  divine  with  the  music  of  the  night. 
A  thousand  memories  filled  me  with  the  joys  of  other 
years — memories  of  friends  changed  and  gone,  and  of 
the  dawning  sun  lighting  up  the  nimble  fancy  worlds 
of  youth. 

I  thought  I  could  see  the  place  where  two  lovers  met 
in  the  dim  past,  and  out  of  the  kiss  of  their  lips  I 
crawled  into  the  morning  of  the  world — and  these 
poems  after  me. 

Though  I  did  not  hear  their  words,  unforgotten  is 
their  lover's  parley;  for  ere  they  knew  me,  it  was  I 
who  moved  their  lips  to  speech  in  the  still  night. 

How  much  history  has  passed  within  this  small  space 
of  earth — of  no  importance  to  the  world;  yet  all  im 
portant  the  life  of  each  to  himself! 

How  many  have  lived  and  toiled  and  planned  here — 
how  many,  tired  and  care-worn,  have  lain  down  here 
to  repose  at  night! 

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How  many  places  where  elegance  and  beauty  once 
reigned  have  fallen  to  base  uses!  and  how  many,  merry 
with  midnight  music  and  the  dance,  have  been  lifted 
into  immortal  joy,  as  if  death  were  not! 


II 

0  my  native  city!  thou  knowest  not  how  often  I  have 
thought  of  thee  when  far*  away.    When  I  have  wan 
dered  amid  other  scenes,  and  other  men  and  women 
and  children  have  passed  by  me,  fondly  have  I  thought 
of  thee. 

The  cool  shade  of  thy  many  trees,  and  the  memory  of 
the  gentle  river  at  thy  margin,  have  been  a  solace 
to  me  in  strange  and  distant  places. 

But  thou  wilt  go  on  unconcerned  as  ever  when  I  am 
gone  into  the  silent  land.  Soon  wilt  thou  forget  that 

1  wandered  about  thy  streets  in   the  shadow  of  thy 
buildings.     Within  thy  bosom  I  lay  as  a  child,  have 
grown  to  manhood,  and  shall  at  last  rest  in  dreamless 
sleep. 

But  thou,  too,  must  pass  away;  and  where  now  is  trade 
and  manufacture,  God  in  His  time  will  plant  another 
forest;  and  it  will  grow,  and  no  man  will  know  that 
thou  dwelt  there. 

On  new-born  branches  birds  will  whisper  songs  of 
love,  and  flowered  children  of  the  wilderness  will  drink 
the  sun-wine,  and  gloaming  eve  shall  know  the  wild 
dove's  voice,  and  this  race  of  hurrying,  contentious 
men  shall  lie — oh,  so  still  under  the  grass! 
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So,  too,  all  things  shall  pass  away— I,  thou,  country, 
earth,  solar  systems. 

What  remains? 

I    SIT   AFRAID 

O  WORLD,  how  I  have  loved  you! 
And  you  have  stripped  me  and  scourged  me; 
Yet  have  I  loved  you, 
And  my  heart  has  been  full  of  you. 
I  hear  you  say,  "Who  are  you 
That  we  should  care  for  your  love?" 
I  answer,  "I  am  nothing, 
But  I  loved  you." 

And  I  answer  again,  "I  am  nothing, 
But  I  have  reached  my  hand  to  the  lowest, 
And  I  have  sat  with  want 
That  the  weak  might  be  nourished, 
And  the  lonely  filled  with  love." 

Each  one  of  you  would  I  have   folded  in  my  arms, 
Not  in  the  public  place  in  view  of  eyes, 
But  on  the  unseen  path  of  every  day, 
For  my  heart  was  full  of  you, 

My  lips  blooming  with  wild,  sweet  songs  at  morn, 
And   softer   strains   in   evening's   twilight   hour. 
But  you  stripped  me  and  scourged  me. 
Now  silent  I  sit  afraid. 

LIFE 

1SAT  with  the  stars  on  the  hill  of  life 
And  looked  at  the  world  below. 
I  ran  with  the  winds  where  the  winds  begin 
And  followed  them  where  they  blow. 

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I  lay  by  the  sea  on  the  beaten  rock 

And  rode  on  the  farthest  wave. 
I  watched  by  a  child  on  its  night  of  birth 

And  followed  it  to  its  grave. 

The  lips  with  a  sting  in  their  passions'  press 

Touched  mine  to  my  soul  within; 
I  know  all  the  cavernous  earthly  hells, 

The  gold-garnished  seats  of  sin. 

And  love  in  the  still  of  the  star-flecked  night, 
When  earth  was  all  strewn  with  gold, 

Has  lifted  my  heart  like  the  chords  of  song 
Oft  sung  in  the  worlds  of  old. 

And  though  I  have  not  understood  all  this, 

Made  up  of  a  laugh  and  a  wail; 
I  think  that  the  God  of  the  world  knows  all, 

And  some  day  will  tell  the  tale. 

IN   THE   MORNING   TWILIGHT 

HERE  I  stand  watching  the  dawn.    In  miniature  I 
am  living  my  whole  life  over  again.     Other  years 
flit  before  me  and  are  gone,  like  fire-flies  in  the  night. 
The  past  marches  again  through  the  archway  of  con 
sciousness,  and  I  stand  looking  on. 

You  are  marching  through  this  archway  —  you  who  sit 
with  me  in  the  evening  and  think  these  thoughts  after 
me;  you  who  are  old;  you  with  bodily  beauty,  battling 
against  commerce  of  the  flesh,  whether  in  or  out  of  the 
law;  you  ill-formed  and  unloved  person;  you,  disap 
pointed  one,  making  a  sorry  figure  on  the  streets  of 
life;  you  who  nervously  watch  with  a  hawk's  eye  the 
outgoings  and  incomings  of  your  shop;  you  criminal 
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awaiting  trial;  you  idler  in  dandy's  attire;  you  who 
think  yourself  learned;  and  you  who  know  yourself  to 
be  ignorant — 

You — each  of  you  I  know,  for  each  of  you  has  passed 
through  me,  as  I  have  passed  through  you.  Each  of 
you  is  my  kin,  coming  where  I  came  from,  going 
whither  I  shall  go,  out  of  darkness  before  the  morning, 
back  somewhere  after  the  day. 

0  my  friend!  you  should  have  seen  me  playing  seri 
ously  many  parts  in  the  human  comedy;  you  should 
have  seen  me  puffed  up  with  learning,  and  stepping  the 
nimble  step  of  fashion,  with  platitudes  and  quiet  flat 
tery  on  my  lips,  wearing  the  political  social  smile.     (I 
could  do  them  perfectly.)     Long,  too,  with  a  sad  kind 
of  joy,  have  I  made  a  specialty  of  virtue;  and  then  in 
days  of  inner  flame  have  I  felt  in  me  the  passion  to 
swim  a  sea  of  lust. 

The  red  weeds  of  vengeance  have  poisoned  my  reason; 
and  the  dagger  of  death  has  trembled  in  my  hand.  I 
have  sat  in  mighty  earthly  places  with  the  rulers  of 
men;  and  silently  with  seers  have  I  seen  this  world 
grow  small  and  dim,  as  I  looked  down  upon  it  from 
the  immortal  thrones  on  the  mountain  tops  of  greater 
worlds. 

1  have  worked  with  my  hands  day  after  day,  and  I 
know  the  joy;  and  I  know  the  numb  hell  of  overwork — 
the  leech  at  the  throat;  I  have  been  loved  by  many 
children,  as  if  I  were  their  father;  and  I  have  been 
looked  upon  with  suspicion. 

There  you  go — all  who  have  passed  in  and  out  me. 
I  know  each  of  you;  and  as  you,  singing  audibly  or 

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inaudibly,  passing  me  on  the  highway,  have  nourished 
me,  so  would  I  have  you  sit  and  rest  yourself  in  the 
shadow  of  my  faith.  Now  in  this  hour  of  still  dawn 
would  I  whisper  to  you  the  faith  that  is  in  me.  I 
would  banish  civilization,  and  turn  mankind  loose  over 
this  emerald  field  sparkling  with  dew. 

This  burst  of  sunlight  out  of  the  east,  this  mystery 
of  the  dawning,  has  filled  me  with  a  new  peace,  and  I 
lay  aside  the  cares  of  life  and  sit  with  smiling  face 
in  the  doorway  of  the  world;  and  the  many  persons 
I  have  been  are  unified  and  yield  to  the  world  beyond 
the  senses — the  world  of  the  soul. 

0  you   who   are   looking    downward   with    still   face, 
sitting  with  unlighted  candles  in  the  house  of  life,  and 
you  surrounded   by  the   noise   of  the  crowded  world 
with  its  cruelty  and  haste,  and  you  unloved  one  with 
starving  heart,  and  you  who  have  failed,  sitting  beside 
the  ashes  of  grandeur  that  is  past — 

You,  all  of  you,  shall  yet  be  filled,  though  I  know  not 
how,  and  the  dream  shall  one  day  meet  you  face  to 
face  as  a  thing  that  is  real,  and  you  will  embrace  it 
caressingly,  as  this  morning  light  caresses  the  waking 
earth. 

EHEU! 

I  WAS  not  called  for  greater  tasks  than  these  brief 
half-born  songs; 

1  was  not  called  to  smite  the  lyre  and  right  a  nation's 

wrongs. 

Not  even  was  I  bidden  touch  the  finger  tips  of  fame; 
But  in  the  eddies  of  a  stream  I  scrolled  my  name. 
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Yet  you  who  read  perchance  in  after  years  by  glow  of 

light 

In  evening  still,  or  by  the  music  of  some  lonely  stream, 
Or  on  some  silent,  God-lit  hill  above  the  noisy  world— 
To  you  I  whisper  love,  not  fame,  was  my  one  dream. 

Oh,  that  in  youth  but  once  I  could  have  sung  a  song 

that  held 

The  magic  music  of  my  soul,  which  ever  upward  welled 
Against  my  tuneless  lips!  I  sit  alone  and  know  the 

truth, 
With  broken  harp  beside  the  ashes  of  my  youth. 

OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

MY  LIFE  is  like  a  ship  that's  lost  at  sea, 
A  worn-out  toy  with  which  no   child  will  play, 
The  sombre  twilight  after  a  rainy   day, 
A  sieged  city  that  no  arms  will  free, 
A  lonely  hovel  on  a  grassless  lea 
To  which  no  friendly   footsteps  wend  their  way. 
I  sometimes  think  I  see  myself  decay, 
Like  cankered  fruit  upon  a  withered  tree. 
Was  that  one  voice  I  heard  of  old  a  lie, 
Some   drunken   poison  in  the  blood   of  youth 
That  made  my  hope  seem  like  the  dawn  of  truth? 
Thou  God  of  my  forgotten  boyhood,  I 
Am  sick  of  soul,  decaying  with  each  breath, 
Like  one  whose  lips  have  touched  the  cup  of  death. 

STERILITY 

I  HAVE  been  urged  to  deliver  some  great  work,  some 
thing  with  magic  that  shall  set  astir  the  world,  and 
make  flow  again  the  dried-up  rivers  of  the  heart,  some- 

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thing  that  shall  endure  and  prove  my  power.  But 
instead  I  do  nothing,  and  sit  whimpering  in  a  corner. 

Oh!  I  have  chidden  myself  and  whipped  myself,  smart 
ing  under  the  lash,  like  a  slave  feeling  the  stripes  in  his 
dungeon;  but  I  cannot  reach  out;  my  imagination  is 
linked  to  the  rocks,  and  I  cannot  break  the  chain;  my 
will  lies  ill  abed;  and  desire  in  me  has  starved  as  in 
a  famine. 

I  spend  my  days  in  drudgery,  and  the  endless  round 
of  daily  duties  has  calloused  my  heart.  I  turn  as  a 
wheel  and  cannot  break  away  from  the  axis  of  steel 
that  holds  me  tight.  Song  has  left  me  like  the  foliage 
of  a  summer  that  is  past,  and  memories  of  olden 
dreams  knock  no  more  at  the  door  of  thought. 

Oh,  who  will  unchain  me  from  the  rocks!  Who  will 
set  me  free  and  light  again  the  candles  in  the  house 
of  hope!  Who  will  teach  me  desire  and  rebuild  the 
enchanted  palaces!  I  am  ungathered  grain  that  the 
frost  has  nipped,  a  cloud  that  sends  no  rain  when  the 
earth  is  parched. 

Oh,  how  often  I  have  set  out  with  boldness  to  soar 
afar  in  some  great  task  only  to  return  with  bleeding 
breast  and  broken  wing!  I  was  made  for  small  per 
formances,  and  my  ambition  is  like  a  child  reaching 
for  the  sun,  or  like  a  wild  beast  that  roams  in  forsaken 
lands,  contemplating  the  spires  of  a  dead  civilization. 

Henceforth,  I  will  shut  myself  in  and  be  silent.  And  if 
no  other  virtue  be  mine,  this  shall  I  strive  to  attain: 
that  though  I  dash  yet  again  and  again  on  the  rocks, 
I  utter  no  more  cry;  though  my  soul  die,  I  go  as  one 
who  lives;  though  all  be  taken  from  me,  I  abide  as 
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one  who  has;  and  though  my  triumphs  exist  only  in 
the  painted  world  of  my  brain,  I  live  as  if  indeed  the 
laurel  had  pressed  my  brow,  and  my  song  had  mingled 
a  little  with  the  music  of  the  world. 


THE  THINGS  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

HAVE  I  spoken  in  vain,  or  has  some  one  somewhere 
understood  me?     Have  I  bared  my  breast  to  dead 
book-shelves,  and  shall  the  tenderness  that  has  bloomed 
in  me  wither  like  some  wild  plant  in  an  unfrequented 
forest? 

The  world  that  passes  by  me  in  fevered  haste  knows 
me  not;  nor  takes  me  by  the  hand,  for  what  shall  it 
profit  any  man  loving  only  things  to  be  my  friend? 

Once  my  poems  mingled  with  the  thoughts  of  two 
lovers  in  a  wood;  and  once  an  old  man  told  me  that  I 
had  given  him  courage  to  live; 

And  these  things  have  I  lovingly  nursed  in  my  soul; 
and  as  many  flowers  grow  from  a  single  seed,  so  full 
a  hundred  songs  have  bloomed  in  me,  out  of  the 
thought  that  my  task  had  not  been  all  in  vain. 

And  now  I  know  that  the  things  of  the  spirit  that  are 
given  will  return  sometime — maybe  only  after  long 
years,  but  they  will  return. 

Meanwhile  you  who  serve  and  wait,  linger  here  a 
moment  and  rest  in  the  shadow  of  my  faith;  for  the 
things  I  give,  you  will  give  to  me  again — perhaps  when 
I  wander  lost  in  the  night  in  the  city  of  strange 
experience. 

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A    PSALM 

WHEN  I  wander  in  places  of  greed  for  gain  I  have 
no  desire;  the  grass  of  the  meadow  and  the  stars 
of  the  night  comfort  me.  Though  darkness  overcome 
me,  I  shall  not  despair;  the  God  of  my  youth  still  abides 
with  me.  He  showeth  me  the  palaces  of  the  rich  and 
the  haunts  of  the  poor,  yet  keepeth  sweet  my  soul. 
When  weariness  overtakes  me,  I  lie  down  in  slumber, 
and  the  peace  of  the  world  is  upon  me.  Though  pov 
erty  abide  with  me,  I  pray  that  courage  and  gentleness 
forsake  me  not.  And  with  all  living  things  out  of  the 
earth  and  out  of  other  worlds  I  believe  I  shall  grow 
in  the  fields  of  God  forever. 


I  AM   OVER  ANXIOUS 

DAYS  and  weeks,  months  and  years  pass  and  we 
grow    old;    the    senses    respond    more    and    more 
slowly  to  sight  and  sound,  desire  withers  like  a  flower 
out  of  season,  and  passion  perishes  on  the  snows  of 
many  winters. 

Hope  of  grand  deeds,  like  a  memory,  returns  less  and 
less  often;  and  the  fine  daring  of  youth  lies  lifeless 
in  the  comfort  of  some  little  corner  of  the  world. 

Dreams  vanish,  ambitions  are  forgotten,  and  the  pas 
sion  of  love  warms  no  more  the  hearthstones  of  the 
human  heart. 

Melodies  pass  unheard  in  the  singing  winds,  and  the 
whispers  of  evening  twilight  enchant  no  more. 

O  age,  where  is  thy  fulfillment  of  youth! 
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We  go  out  like  a  candle  that  is  spent,  vanish  like  the 
waters  of  a  sunken  river,  and  are  forgotten  like  a 
garment  that  is  cast  aside. 

If  this  is  all,  then  life  is  water  that  does  not  quench 
the  thirst,  tears  that  do  not  unburden  the  heart.  Then 
the  crimson  lure  in  the  west  at  sunset  is  a  lie,  and  vainly 
burns  the  candle  in  the  heart  of  hope. 

But  surely  this  is  not  all.  Every  star  is  a  witness  that 
this  is  not  all. 

And  what  if  to  die  is  but  to  awaken  out  of  a  dreaming 
sleep — to  awaken  in  a  room  with  doors  that  lead  to 
every  chamber  in  the  household  of  the  universe,  alike 
to  the  subterranean  caverns  of  an  ant-hill  and  to  the 
mammoth  palaces  built  on  infinitely  distant  worlds  that 
wander  through  the  night  in  their  luster  of  gold! 

And  you  who  quarrel  with  me  at  the  market,  and  con 
tend  with  me  upon  the  street,  you  shall  see,  when  I 
am  dead,  how  still  I  shall  lie,  and  with  what  peace  my 
face  is  composed. 

But  you  shall  not  see  me,  for  I  shall  have  slipped  away. 

Oh,  I  am  over  anxious  to  know  how  I  shall  conduct 
myself  when  I  have  slipped  away — more  anxious  than 
how  I  shall  conduct  myself  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day! 

And  though  I  know  not  why,  I  cannot  say  how  sure 
I  am  that  I  shall  conduct  myself  well,  and  that  you 
will  conduct  yourself  well,  and  that  we  shall  be 
satisfied. 

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THE    HOUSE    INSIDE 

I  WANDER  again  inside  myself,  door  after  door  I 
open,  pass  through,  and  close  again  slowly,  noise 
lessly. 

The  outer  world  I  leave  behind,  I  hear  no  more  the 
noise  of  the  street,  and  I  see  no  more  the  sights  of 
daily  life. 

As  I  pass  from  chamber  to  chamber  in  the  house  of 
my  soul,  everything  becomes  more  and  more  quiet. 
Now  I  pause  a  moment  in  the  still  room  which  is  not 
far  removed  from  the  inner  chamber  of  the  quick  of  me. 

All  passion,  all  desire,  all  possession  are  stripped  from 
me;  the  world  of  the  senses  is  gone,  and  a  light  not  of 
the  world  but  of  the  inner  world  guides  my  steps. 

Color  and  shape  are  gone;  something  like  music  but 
not  music  I  hear  and  yet  hear  not.  Something  like 
feeling,  but  neither  of  pleasure  nor  pain,  presses  gently 
against  me  at  the  heart  of  myself. 

The  next  chamber  and  the  next,  and  I  stand  face  to 
face  with  the  flame,  the  spirit,  the  God.  It  seems  to  me 
it  must  be  a  chamber  of  mother-of-pearl,  with  living 
iris  hues,  and  a  flame  of  saffron — a  still  flame  of  saffron. 
I  tremble,  for  the  house  has  grown  strange  to  me,  and 
I  feel  I  shall  lose  my  way.  I  have  passed  the  chambers 
of  human  speech  and  can  therefore  explain  no  more 
save  in  symbols.  I  search  for  symbols. 

It  seems  like  a  light,  a  still,  warm  light  with  a  face 
in  it,  the  face  of  the  human  soul,  the  face  of  the  faint 
and  changeless   smile,   noiseless,    eternal,   gentle,    oh! 
very  gentle. 
187 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


This  I  say,  though  I  have  not  yet  passed  the  last  door. 
I  have  lost  my  way,  fear  overtakes  me,  I  can  remember 
nothing,  it  seems  that  I  am  sinking,  a  piercing  chill 
runs  through  my  body,  I  tremble  and  shriek  inwardly, 
I  retrace  my  steps,  groping  in  the  dark,  urging  my  will 
as  with  an  iron  spear,  I  hurry  out,  away,  back  to  the 
chamber  of  memory  and  imagination,  back  to  the  world 
of  speech,  then  out  of  doors  to  the  world  of  sight  and 
sound  and  color. 

I  lack  the  full  measure  of  courage,  yet  I  remember  that 
I  stood  in  the  ante-chamber  of  my  soul. 


THROUGH  THE  MIST  OF  THE  WORLD 

DO  NOT  think  I  am  one  who  would  cover  with 
sweet   speech  the  tragedies   of  life. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  drunk  the  lees  of  every 
poison,  and  sat  at  midnight  with  every  woe. 

Thrice  have  I  stood  on  a  precipice  and  looked  into 
the  caverns  of  the  nether  world,  and  thrice  have  been 
recalled  by  the  voice  of  a  friend. 

I  have  ached  in  body  from  toil,  and  hope  has  died 
in  me  a  thousand  times. 

I  walked  out  in  youth  with  Christ  in  my  soul  and  was 
crucified  at  the  first  crossing. 

Curses  have  been  given  me  for  kindness,  and  the  tongue 
of  hate  has  mingled  my  name  with  poison. 

So  low  has  courage  ebbed  in  me  that  I  have  asked 
nothing  of  the  world  but  a  corner  in  which  to  breathe 
and  hide  my  face. 

188 


Confessional 

* * * 

Years  of  patient  toil,  instead  of  wealth  and  the  good 
will  of  friends,  brought  me  want  and  the  sneers  of  them 
I  loved. 

Oh,  how  I  should  have  joyed  in  one  kind  word  and 
the  touch  of  a  sympathetic  hand! 

Sorrow,  fear,  envy,  hate,  bitterness,  passed  in  and 
out  of  me,  like  miasmatic  fumes  from  the  foul  places 
of  the  earth. 

The  God  of  my  youth  was  dead,  and  on  His  grave 
danced  the  devils  of  every  sin. 

Vulgarity  triumphed  over  gentleness,  and  the  fat  trades 
man  was  master  of  them  that  are  sweet  in  spirit. 

Every  ideal  I  had  was  the  mother  of  a  brood  of  sor 
rows,  for  to  follow  a  vision  in  a  land  of  bog  is  death. 

And  the  end  of  all  human  effort  is  as  the  grass  of  a 
forgotten  summer. 

Yet  through  the  night  of  this  despair  again  and  again 
have  burst  the  rays  of  morning. 

And  in  the  dim  light  I  have  bound  the  broken  chords 
of  life. 

Out  of  the  winter  of  the  past  have  crept  the  buds  of 
spring,  and  once  again  have  I  planted  love  in  my  heart, 
and  therefore  found  love  in  others. 

The  lips  of  malice  have  at  last  whispered  a  gentle 
word  and  courage  was  born  in  me  again. 

Toil,  though  it  brought  not  what  I  sought,    brought 
something,    and    nursed    again    to    life    the    withered 
blooms  of  hope. 
189 


The  Poemsgf  Max  Ehrmann 


The  dogmas  of  the  world  that  bound  me  to  pain  I  cut, 
as  with  a  knife; 

And  now  I  wander  fretly,  taking  counsel  of  my  human 
nature  and  the  love  of  life,  lingering  where  I  will, 
denying  me  nothing. 

And  through  the  mist  of  the  world  I  seem  to  see  again 
the  God  of  my  youth;  but  grown  older,  gentler,  and 
more  compassionate,  as  I  myself  am  older  and  more 
compassionate. 


190 


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